


Personal Space Invader

by bonniebarko



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Dirty Jokes, Dirty Talk, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-01-16 10:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21269357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonniebarko/pseuds/bonniebarko
Summary: In a better world where Eddie doesn't get vibe checked at the end of It Chapter 2, the titular homos have a one night stand. At the same time, Richie is dealing with his own internalized homophobia and self-hating antics. This fic has a ton of angst in it because I want there to be some plot.Warning for explicit homophobia and references to hate crimes, sexual encounters, and implied cheating cause rip myra. Also all the chapter titles will be song titles for pure self-indulgence.





	1. Sticking Things in Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> making the first chapter a porn chapter? crazy. insane. bonkers  
i made it like this because whenever i read fics, i usually read the porn one-shots, so if you want to stop reading after this chapter, i mean whatever keep vibin

"Jesus fucking Christ, how old is this place?" He could practically smell the asbestos.

It was a small place, and although it seemed that it was once well-put-together, the motel was obviously falling into some sort of disrepair. The door out front seemed to constantly be peaking out onto the porch, the windows were all painted with an eerie dust, and the pool was covered in an ugly, green tarp. It wasn't like they were there to swim, though: It was 11:30 PM and they were exhausted, to say the least.

The parking lot was almost empty, besides a few grey Honda Civics sprinkled out along the road. The big vacancy sign out front was painted blue and caught the attention of anybody who passed by... thirty years ago. Now, the chipping paint and unfinished marquee board glimmered with depression.

The sign read VACANCY... POOL OPEN 24/7... COLOR TV.

"'Color TV'?" Eddie yanked his valise out of his car's trunk, making sure to gently place it down on the asphalt. "Whatever. It's fifty bucks a night."

"I feel like I'm gonna get murdered here. Do you feel like you're gonna get murdered here?" Richie had a large duffel bag crammed full of clothes, mainly jackets. The last time he brushed his hair was probably a month ago and it's not like he disapproved of motel toiletries. He'd be fine without the clothes, too, but he didn't really feel like wearing an "I Heart Portland" shirt to bed every night.

The other rolled his eyes and slammed his trunk shut, locking it twice. "Like we didn't almost get murdered today? Or yesterday?"

"Or the day before that. And the day before that. Oh, and wait..." He contemplated it for a moment before nodding, oddly humored by Eddie trying to lock his car. "Yeah, the day before that."

"And twenty-seven years ago." Eddie murmured it almost inaudibly, yet Richie heard him. He chose not to respond. "Risk analyst here, and I say, we'll be fine. We're more likely to--"

"'We're more likely to get into a car crash on the way here'--Got it. I'm just saying, by sheer intuition, we're probably gonna get filleted. You heard it from me." They started walking towards the entrance, Richie's leather loafers clicking against the pavement. Even when he wasn't talking, he was making a racket.

When they got to the door, Eddie cautiously pushed through the off-white entrance way, opening the dusty lobby of the motel. At the counter was a sleepy old woman, clad with a floral blouse and long white hair. She was drifting off.

"Okay, fine. Old ladies don't murder." Richie brushed past Eddie to get to the desk and rang the bell. The woman woke up with a start. Her eyes were wide and shocked, yet they slowly melted into relief.

She spun around in her swivel chair. On the opposite wall was a board of keys on hooks, all engraved with room numbers. She pulled off #4 and turned back to Richie, smiling. "If you have any issues, call the lobby. We're open until 12." 

"Great. Thank you," Eddie said a little two quickly and grabbed the key out of Richie's grasp. He handed him a confused glare before the two carried their luggage down the hall.

"What the hell was that about?"

"I don't want anymore snarky comments. I wanna go to bed." He stressed out the last word. "I haven't slept well in days, Rich."

"Uh, yeah. None of us have."

"No more nightmares," he plugged the key into the lock at door #4 and twisted the knob. "No more night terrors. Just sleep and sweet dreams--"

One bed.

"Are you fucking kidding me," Eddie deadpanned, dropping his suitcase to the floor. The room was cramped, and although there was indeed a color TV, there was only one bed. It was laced with a floral comforter.

Richie raised his eyebrows and walked inside, unabashed. "You booked the room, dipshit."

"I requested two queen sizes. This is a king." He extended his arms to point at it and shook his head. "Should I go back to the lobby and ask for another room?"

"Dude, chill the fuck out." He dropped off his duffel bag by the leather couch. Luckily, there was a couch by the closet, and although Richie was way too tall to be sleeping on it, he could curl up. He would end up doing that in his sleep anyway. "I'll sleep on the couch."

Eddie was quiet for a moment before clearing his throat. "Well, no. I don't..."

"You don't what?" He looked back at Eddie, who seemed almost uncomfortable.

"That's a dick thing to do, isn't it? Forcing you to sleep on a couch because I messed up?"

Richie gestured to the couch. "She's all yours if you want her."

"No, no, it's alright--"

He patted the armrest. "She's pretty big. It'll be like sleeping with your wife." He grinned a shit-eating grin.

"Go fuck yourself, Richie Tozier." Eddie walked off towards the bed and began to undo the comforter. "Speaking of wives... Remember back at the restaurant?"

He had no clue where he was going with this, but Richie continued to pull out some boxers. "Yeah. With the fortune cookies from Hell."

"Okay, yeah, but before that." He sat down on the bed and began to unzip his bag for night clothes. "When we were talking about, like, getting married. Did you actually ever get married?"

Richie cleared his throat. "We talked about this. Me and your mother are--"

"Cut the shit." His voice grew surprisingly serious. "Be serious. You never did, in forty years, get a girl to like you? Not ever? Not once?" Eddie looked across the room at Richie, who was still bent over his suitcase, seemingly looking for nothing.

Richie thought for a moment, and Eddie could see him shake his head. "No, I've been busy. Traveling... Work and stuff."

"Forty, and you've never had a girlfriend. Am I hearing this correctly?" Eddie almost laughed, but kept it to a smile. "So, wait, you're not a 40-year-old virgin or anything. You'd have to be with someone--"

"I'm not a virgin, Eds. That's your thing. I'd never steal it from you."

"Okay, so... one night stands? Tinder? Glory holes? Come on. I didn't think you were that ugly." Eddie cracked a wider grin, but somehow, he felt as though Richie wasn't smiling.

"Why are you obsessed with how I get my dick wet?" He tossed his head over his shoulder and shot him a confused look. "Can we just drop it?" Richie went back to looking through his nonexistent luggage.

Eddie was silent. He slowly turned back to his stack of neatly folded clothes and pulled out a pair of flannel pants and a tank top. He also felt at his cheek where Bowers had slit the skin. It still stung, although the stitches and pain meds were helping. He awkwardly shimmied out of his slacks and changed into his clothes. Somehow, the silence made him feel even more uncomfortable.

Eventually, Richie rose to his feet and declared, "I'll sleep in this. Who cares?" He was still outfitted in his dark green windbreaker and slacks, and up until a second before he still had his glasses on his face. He laid down on the leather couch and smiled when his legs hung over the armrest. "Jesus Christ." He tossed off the windbreaker and wrapped himself in it like a blanket.

Something about the scene made Eddie feel sort of... bad, like maybe he should've been in Richie's place. After all, he wasn't the tallest guy around. He could probably rest comfortably on the couch, but he really needed this sleep. Richie looked like he didn't need sleep. Ever.

Eddie remained quiet and slipped into bed. The only light was emitted from a small lamp on the bedside table and he slowly flicked it off. The room filled with blue, murky darkness, with the only light being from the window.

Soon, Eddie fell asleep and Richie was left awake on the couch. He laid there, almost shaking from the frigid air, and clung to his windbreaker. He really should have kept his socks on because his feet and ankles were freezing. Eventually, he curled up his legs to his chest, feeling his heart beat against the couch cushion.

About a half an hour had passed before Richie began to reconsider his decision. There was no way he was going to fall asleep on this dingy leather couch, and he could only imagine what was done on it--

Pervert.

His eyes snapped open, only for him to see the leather cushion in front of him. He was clutching one of the pillows to his chest, and upon hearing that word, he clutched it tighter. Then, he drearily closed his eyes again.

I know your se--

He pressed the pillow hard against his chest and felt his lips tighten. Okay, no more thinking about the couch. It's settled. No more thinking about this stupid hotel room, and this stupid one-bed situation, and this stupid fucking couch. Who cares what happened here? Who cares if some lady was getting raw-dogged at this very spot? Who cares if it was doggy style or missionary? Not Richie. Nope, no sir-ee. And he definitely, 100% did not, think about what the guy would have looked like.

Honestly, he didn't care if the guy was tall or short or whatever, or if he had dark eyes or he had blue eyes, or if he was trim and athletic or stocky and burly. Who cares if his arms were peppered with veins or his chest was decorated with a plumage of chest hair? Certainly not good ol' Richard Tozier. And to top it all off, who cares if he held the woman down and ran his fingers through her hair, giving her a look like she was the only woman in the world? The only person that mattered to him?

Besides chest hair, what was beneath it? Did it really matter if he was well-refined or not? Did it matter if he had a six-pack or pecs or whatever? Probably not. And so what if they had a pretty face, with big, black eyes and pursed lips, and a relaxed disposition? No. There wasn't a single man that Richie would care about.

Or at least that's what he shoved deep inside his brain. It was so far crammed down, it was hard to tell if it was real anymore. And what was his brain telling him? What was it showing him?

Somehow, although the leather of the pillow was apparent, it felt as though someone was there, being coddled by him against the couch.

He couldn't sleep on this thing, and that was final.

He rose from it with the pillow still stuck to his chest. Richie turned and faced the bed, where Eddie was curled up in the middle of the bed.

His voice cracked when he spoke. "Eddie, can you move over?"

At first, he thought Eddie would be too deep into sleep to respond, but he surprisingly groaned and shuffled over to the left side of the bed.

Richie stared at the right side as though he were about to dip into an uncomfortably icy lake. Lakes. They used to go swimming in those all the time, and every time, it felt only slightly unbearable.

He slowly slipped onto the right side of the bed and pulled the comforter over his shoulder. In his mind, perhaps those thoughts would seize, and maybe he would finally get an hour of sleep. After all, he could finally stretch out his legs.

He closed his eyes, finally relieved.

I know your secret.

Jesus, could he please get some relief? It was almost annoying at this point, and even worse so it was painful. He tried to smother his face into his pillow and hug the leather one against his chest. Somehow, though, Richie seemed to have forgotten that he threw it to the side before he climbed in.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around the chest laying next to him, and nestled his face into his neck. Upon realizing this, both their eyes snapped open.

Eddie flipped over with a puzzled look on his face. Their noses were almost touching, and Eddie could make out just how wide Richie's eyes had gotten. He sat up fast, and right after, Richie began to sit up.

"Eds, I--" The words didn't come to him. They were staring at each other now, almost intensely. The tension between their skin was palpable and thick. That must have been why it was hard to breathe.

Eddie almost impulsively laid hands on either one of Richie's shoulders, and they sat like that for a few moments. Richie's eyes still laid in their sockets, wide as can be, his breath caught in his throat. They were getting closer somehow, with the clashing of skin and clothing, and he only noticed it when their foreheads were touching--well--butting against each other, if that's the only word to describe it.

Richie murmured, yet it sounded like a huff, "What're you doing..." almost too lazily to fully render. The only sound was Eddie's breath, fast and harsh out his mouth.

"Don't tell Myra," he breathed, their foreheads still touching, "Okay?"

Richie was quiet before he nodded slightly, his arms shaking as he rested them on Eddie's hipbones. They practically slid together, with Richie's lips meeting Eddie's, and with his teeth gently floating along the other's bottom lip.

Eddie's chest rode up to meet Richie's button-up. Although he wasn't really making an effort with the kiss, and although he seemed really sleepish with it, he was pressing hard against his chest. Richie shifted his legs to be off the side of the bed and wrapped his arm around Eddie as they kissed. He thus removed his hands from the others shoulders.

They must have been breathing too loud, because that was all that could be heard for miles. Holy shit, they were old.

Eddie's hands sunk down to Richie's confusingly bony hips (how the fuck...) and fell to his thighs. Richie could feel his face glow bright red and chills run up and down his back. His breath only heightened when Eddie rested his hand on his pants button.

"Goddamnit, Eddie," he breathed low as they broke away. They both stared at Eddie's hand placement, and a second later--

He was whipped out of the situation like a fish being pulled from the water. His mind whipped from that warm, mysterious place to 1989, Derry, Maine.

How to describe Derry... Other than the speckle on the erect statue of New England, Derry was the small town to end all small towns. Abandoned buildings, old bridges, carved names and broken glass--All packed into one, small, forgotten town in the back country of the north-east. The second he was 18, he flew out to California, and never was he seen home again. Except for the past few weeks, the shittiest weeks in the last twenty years.

The shittiest weeks period were suffered alongside those small town carnivals and arcade cabinets. The period between the ages of eleven and eighteen were insufferable, almost unlivable, and the second those gay rumors started spreading, everything became so much worse.

He denied it like how infected people in zombie movies lie about being infected. It was a lie, a rumor, a joke--whatever he could say to get his friends' minds off it. After all, graffiti practically peppered every nook and cranny of Derry, from the kissing bridge to the town green.

KILL ALL QUEERS and FAGS GET THERE COCKS CUT (FOR GOD) were just a few of the many misspelled slogans plastered where Richie used to hang out. Maybe that's why he originally carved that R+E into the side of the bridge. It was like a big, glorious finger to whoever spray painted those things all those years before.

And now he was here, doing exactly what everyone thought he would do, close to home. When he was in Vegas or California, gay guys were a dime a dozen. They were everywhere, and they were beautiful, but they were far. The farthest point from home there was, and there was no way any of his old friends could find him.

Until now.

"I... I can't do this," he huffed, his eyes drifting to Eddie almost cautiously.

Eddie was quiet. "I didn't mean to--"

Richie asked too quickly, "Are you gay?"

This astounded Eddie, whose eyes blew out with white and whose face was already coaxed with blush. "Are... you gay?"

"I..." He thought back to the bridge. "Your hand."

"My hand?"

"Your hand is on my dick," he coughed. Eddie jerked it away.

"Sorry, I... misread the situation."

"No, you can keep it--Fuck, whatever. Shit," he practically shouted into his hands. "Fuck this fucking, fuck. Whatever! Fuck." He sounded hysterical, with his hands in his face and winding through his hair. He finally removed them, hit with a realization. "Okay, if you put your hand on my dick, that's gay. You're gay, and I'm gay, so it cancels out." Richie seemed confident in this answer.

"What?"

"Like how a negative times a negative is a positive. Gay times gay is straight. It's math."

"So you're gay."

He waved his finger and shook his head. "No, no. That means you're gay, and you still have--you still have your hand on--"

Eddie squeezed his hand over Richie's crotch, his head now in the crux of the other. Richie exhaled a sharp breath and groaned, although he didn't mean it. It looked like he was going to melt right there and spill out onto the carpet.

"Okay, yeah, you know. You still have your hand on my dick. I'm guessing that's a personal choice," he rambled as he nodded too quickly.

"Do you ever shut up? Ever?" He began to unbuckle Richie's slacks, brushing his fingers along his boxers as he pulled down the zipper. He inhaled a sharp breath. He looked back up at Richie as he snaked his hand into his pants. "Promise me you won't tell Myra."

"Why the fuck would I tell Myra?" He cocked his eyebrow and ground his knees together out of instinct. "Jesus Christ."

"Promise me, Rich. If she ever finds out..." Eddie's voice trailed off as he pushed down Richie's slacks and eyed at his boxers. He had this look on his face that can only be surmised as when a stranger offers you a candy bar: caution, yet deep interest. However you would describe it, Richie had to remember to exhale.

"I promise. Whatever. What are you--" He inhaled again when Eddie gently palmed at his crotch with this determined look on his face. "I have lotion in... the suitcase. And condoms." Why did he mention the condoms? "I'm clean. Even though I look like human HIV, I'm clean. "

"You packed condoms, but you didn't pack a hairbrush? Or socks?" He furrowed his brow before backing off and rising from the bed. "Where are they? In the duffel bag, I mean." He left Richie at the bed and crossed over to the couch. Richie turned on the lamp.

He continued to shimmy off his slacks until they hit his ankles, and then he kicked them off to the side. He never expected his dick to get hard the same day he killed an alien clown, but that's Derry. And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it was satisfying to pull off his boxers and sit there, his dick almost staring at him like, "HOLY FUCK ITS HAPPENING OH GOD SHIT FUCK OH MY FUCKING GOD ITS HAPPENING ITS HAPPENING ITS HAPPENING OH MY GOD OH MY--"

"Yeah, there aren't any condoms in here. And the closest thing to lube in here is toothpa--You packed toothpaste but no toothbrush?"

"No, I could've sworn--" He rose and began to walk over, but realized he was completely butt-ass-whatever-naked from below his confusingly bony hips. He opted to sit right back down.

Eddie flicked off the lamp on his way back. Richie kept a confused eye on him, with his eyebrow still raised. The other slid up against him, laying his head in the crux of Richie's neck. They were in darkness again, but he could still see Eddie spit into his hand and grab Richie's dick. He breathed in fast at the sudden advance, yet Eddie continued jerking him off.

The feeling of his hand around his cock, the fast breathing from both of them, and whatever else is probably what made Richie start making noise. Even when he wasn't saying anything, he was being a prick.

Haha. Prick.

"Jesus," he breathed, almost slouching over with his arms resting on his thighs. "Like that. Yeah."

He was quiet, but he stayed nestled against Richie's collarbone, his eyes on his crotch and a sleepy expression on his face. His dark hair was brushing against the other's jaw.

"You ever been with a guy before?"

Eddie shook his head. "Unfortunately no." Richie smiled at that, and somehow wove his fingers into Eddie's hair and pressed his lips against his forehead. It wasn't a kiss per say, but it felt nice anyway. He could smell hair gel and killer clown in his hair.

"You'd never..." he managed to pant as Eddie switched his pace. He was growing disgustingly slower, but it was deliberate. If he wasn't lying about the male-on-male virginity, it must've felt strange to be jacking off somehow besides yourself. Or nice. He really needed to put his hand somewhere.

Nevertheless, he continue to grind against his hand, more out of impulse than anything else. Suddenly that feeling of being walking hepatitis faded. Everything seemed much more attractive, including himself, if that could be possible.

And suddenly, almost on cue, his heart was beating faster. His skin was growing hotter and hotter, yet a few shivers floated up his spine like frost on an open field. He groaned something inaudible and wrapped his arms around Eddie's waist.

"God, fuck me." He thought about it for a second. "Wait, no don't fuck me. Fuck you. Like, I want to fuck you. That's what I..." he rambled thoughtlessly, sinking his fingers down Eddie's back until he reached the back pockets of his slacks. "I really should've packed better, now that you've reminded me."

"Yeah, I'd like that," he breathed almost too quiet for Richie to hear. "You didn't expect to be getting a quickie in a hotel in Portland?"

He grinned and continued to pant. "Nope. Not in a... a million years--Fuck." Somehow, with the eyes that were settled on his cock and the hair nestled against his jaw, he had the most annoying desire to do... something. Despite the fact that he was indeed his friend, the utter teasing that was developing was enough to make him flip Eddie over and--

"I can call the lobby for some lube." He stopped his jacking dead in its tracks. They were staring into the blacks of each other's eyes for at least a week before Eddie finally rose. He went over to the phone.

Eddie punched in a few numbers and held the receiver up to his head. Richie could hear the phone ring for a few moments. "You're really making it hard not to touch myself."

"Sorry," he muttered before speaking loudly into the receiver. "Hi. I was wondering if you guys send up toiletries."

"Mmm. You saying 'toiletries' gets me so hard." He laid back against the bed and stared upward at the white popcorn ceiling.

He rolled his eyes. "...Yeah, I was wondering if you have, uh, baby oil? Like Johnson's, or CVS, or... Yeah, that's fine. That's fine... Yeah, I can wait." He looked over at Richie, who was sending him a look. He was scrunching down his eyebrows and smirking in this weird, ironically sexual way. It made Eddie laugh into the receiver. He corrected himself, "...Sorry. Someone was saying something to me."

"Ask her if she wants to join us." He thought about it for a second. "She did kind of look like your mom."

He shot him a paralyzing glare and turned back to the phone. Richie could see the other's hands stiffening. "Yeah, you can send it up now. Just knock," he finished before finally hanging up the phone and shooting Richie a look that could kill.

Richie shrugged and sat up on the back of his elbows. "What? What'd I say?"

Eddie fit the phone snugly back into the receiver and stared into the room's body mirror. He seemed interested in something--only God knows--and began to undo his perfectly ironed button-up. They caught each others' eyes in the mirror.

"Rich, I don't know if you know this, but bringing up someone's mom during sex really kills the mood."

"We're having sex." He let the sentence hang in the air for a bit.

He sent him an incredulous look. "What else are we having?"

"I thought, maybe..." he paused, "No, I don't know what this is. All I know is that twenty years ago, I would've jizzed at the thought."

"Yeah." He gave Richie an up-and-down look. Somehow, his pants had disappeared from their plane of existence and so did his jacket. "I could tell."

"How long does it take to get a bottle of lube?" He glanced at the door.

"Easy, tiger. It's been," he checked his watch on the table, "Forty three seconds."

"Okay, but what's forty three seconds in sex time?"

Eddie lowered his eyes and finally finished unbuttoning his button-up. He laid it gently on the dresser. "'Sex time'? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Time moves slower when your dick's hard. One minute is like... five minutes in sex time. It's like its own time zone." Although it was difficult to not immediately choke his chicken like plastic to a turtle, Richie reasoned with himself. Maybe if Eddie kept looking at him like that, he would cum all on his own.

Cum. What a gross word.

"You swear you haven't been drinking?" Eddie made his way over to Richie, who was still propping himself up by his elbows. "I'm serious. Everything that comes out of your mouth is bullshit." He slid his hands down on either side of his torso, locking eyes with him suggestively. His crotch was pressed just right against Richie's, and if he wasn't wearing pants, he wouldn't be able to contain himself.

That confused him. "Why are you still wearing pants?"

"I..." He thought about it for a second. "I'm gonna be honest. I forgot they were on." When he saw Richie crack a smile, he interjected, "Hold on. You still have your shirt on."

"What? Should we trade or something?"

"Do you have that much of a desire to see my dick--"

"No question," he retorted, rather too quickly. "I feel like I'm acting weird. Am I acting weird?"

"Kind of." He slid down further, finally resting on Richie's lower abdomen and staring down into his eyes.

"This... This should be the other way around. I've done this before. Plenty of times. So many fucking--I'm clean, though. I'm clean. Trust me." It was overwhelming to have eyes locked on you with someone so close to your cock. "You're so pretty."

He started to unbuckle his slacks like he was unwrapping a present on Christmas Day. Instead of getting a new bike or a pony, Richie's was getting laid.

Just as he began to pull off his boxers, someone knocked at the door and Eddie zipped back to reality. He slid back off of Richie and fixed his boxers up to his hip. "Pass me a pillow, will you? I need to hide this." He gestured to his crotch.

"Here. Use my mouth." Richie was proud of that one.

He grabbed a pillow from the bed and marched awkwardly over to the door. He cracked it open a peak and peered through it.

"Hi. Yeah, we called. Thanks." He nabbed the bottle and immediately shut the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Eddie dropped the pillow to the floor and finally stripped off the remainder of his clothes.

Richie watched, smiling.

"What was the look on her face like?" he asked as Eddie started to return. He was attempting to crack open the bottle, and eventually managed to.

"She knew exactly what was going on."

"Oh yeah?"

"A hundred percent." He stared down at the bottle and then at the dick in front of him. "I'm putting this in the microwave."

"Excuse me?" He watched as Eddie walked over to the motel's microwave and stuck the bottle in, punching fifteen seconds into the machine. He leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, acting like he hadn't just shoved their lube in the microwave. "What are you doing?"

"Do you really want cold oil on your cock?" He kept glancing at the clock, acting as though his entire body wasn't completely exposed. "Because be my fucking guest. It'll be warm when it gets to me."

"Alright, smartass. Can you just get over here and sit on my dick?"

"Was that what I said I was going to do?" He rolled his eyes. "5, 4, 3, 2... 1." The microwave beeped and he pulled it out, finally squeezing a dollop into his hand. He finally came back in contact with Richie. "You're the most impatient person I've ever met."

"Great. That makes two of us."

He placed a forceful lube-covered hand on Richie's cock. "I watch way too much porn, I'm going to be honest with you. Borderline addict."

Richie nodded, albeit nervously and surprised at the sudden confession. "Oh, yeah, totally. I still feel like a 20-year-old."

"We came a long way from Playgirls, huh?"

"You read those, too?"

He was lying on top of him now with his hands interlocked in his hair. Richie's hands found their way across his surprisingly smooth skin and gripped around his hip bones.

Eddie's hand was still clasped around the other's dick, slowly slicking it with more lube. He was doing something with his other hand, but Richie couldn't necessarily make it out. Nevertheless, Eddie leaned back and Richie sat up on his elbows again.

The tension was killing him. "Eddie, I swear to God, if you make me beg for this--"

"Impatience." He shook his head teasingly and continued to stroke Richie's cock before suddenly stopping. "How do you want me?"

"...Can you repeat that?"

"I mean, I could just ride you like this and do all the work, or do you want me on my back?" He grinded down slowly to prove a point. "With my legs over your shoulders and your hands on my hips, slowly fucking me--"

"I get it. You watch a lot of porn."

"This is what they say in porn!" Eddie spat defensively. He paused. "And I know it gets you hard. I literally have the proof right here."

"Okay, fine," he said, exasperated. He rolled his eyes. "And let me guess. You want me to cum inside you? I watched that one, too."

"That's unsanitary."

"Your hand is literally on my dick. I'm not doing this anymore." He grasped Eddie by the hips and lifted himself up, flipping them over. Their crotches were still connected, although Eddie's legs were now in the air and he hands hung awkwardly to the side. He seemed somewhat surprised by this, and his eyes got even wider when Richie put his own hands on either side of Eddie's shoulders.

"On my back, okay," he confirmed under his breath. Their lips met again, and this time, as he slowly trailed his teeth over the other's lips, he slid inside.

He could hear Eddie slightly moan as their lips broke apart. Richie continued until he bottomed out, their chests pressing together and a quiet groan escaping Richie's lips. "Holy. Fuck."

Eddie's breathing quickened and he continued to rock his hips, gasping every so often. He kept his arms behind his head and tried to match the other's movements. It was honestly too long to wait for this. It had only been on his mind for thirty years.

"I finally... got you to shut up," Richie smiled and continued to sink and retract his hips. "And you're taking it."

Eddie shot him a look, although his eyes were hooded and his mouth was too busy whispering obscenities.

Richie was honestly surprised. "You've never been fucked like this?" Eddie shook his head. "Or fucked, period. I could only--"

"What do I have to do... to get you to be quiet?" he managed to groan as he grasped his own dick.

"Uh, probably... if I suck you off. With the... 'dick in between my teeth'... and all," Richie stammered, his thrusts becoming more sporadic and shallow. "Goddamnit, Eds. I should've bought you dinner first." He stressed the last word as he hit a particularly nice spot.

Eddie's vocabulary was thus boiled down to a series of "fuck me's" and various synonyms. Eventually, Richie slammed completely into him and finished, moaning out a word that resembled Eddie's name, but not quite. Eddie finally orgasmed after, tired and complete.

They laid like that for approximately five seconds before Eddie declared, "I need to take a shower so bad."

"Me too." Richie sent him a suggestive look, but it wasn't reciprocated.

"After me. I want to take an actual shower."


	2. Constant Headache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blatant homophobia warning, homophobic slurs, brief mention of hate crimes, mention of AIDS, etc. etc. you get the idea

He woke up in a heap.

He was curled up, covered and surrounded by the comforter, and his head was above the comfortable motel pillow. There was a dim glare of sunlight projecting through the window. Richie stretched and although he expected the bed to be empty, he realized there was someone between his arms.

He was wrapping his legs around the other's lower half and was pressed tight against his back, his hands trailing over his chest. Eddie must have still been asleep and Richie could still smell his shampoo in his hair. Green apple.

And then he got whipped back in memories, swamped with some emotion he couldn't quite place.

He was fourteen. Somehow he knew that, but every year between middle school and high school kind of blended together into a soupy, gross mess. He was in the boys bathroom at Derry High School, washing his hands and clearing his glasses with the scruff of his t-shirt. It was sunny outside and the light was peering through into the stalls.

It was kind of weird, but Richie had noted and mentally wrote down every nook and cranny of that bathroom. He used to spend a lot of time sitting on the tiles, counting the scratches on the mirrors. It was better than class or getting stalked by Bowers.

Speaking of Bowers, there was a sound outside of the bathroom door.

He neglected his glasses and turned to the door. There must have been three or so guys honking and laughing outside. It was difficult to distinguish if he knew those voices or not, but as he contemplated it, the voices got closer and closer. Then, all at once, the door swung open and Richie slid into a stall.

He locked it and sat with his legs up on the toilet. It was a rookie mistake to let them rest on the floor--he learned that from Beverly--not only because you gave away your position, but because one of Bowers' friends learned how to piss under the stall.

It must have been winter because he remembered his nose was stuffy. He breathed through his mouth to control the sound and listened to the group.

Through the crack in the stall, he could see Patrick Hockstetter, with his long hair and longer legs, examining a switchblade. He looked just like a gangling, old cat, hunched over the sink and examining itself in the mirror. He began to carve little shapes into the glass before ultimately giving up.

There were two other boys there, but Richie didn't know their names, and he didn't plan to find out. No matter what, Bowers was there, and he was pissed.

Or at least Richie thought he was pissed. It was hard to tell with Henry Bowers. He would start screaming and growling at anybody within a five-mile radius, and then a second later burst into full-blown giddy. He'd laugh and hoot and holler, and then he would pull out a knife and cut out your jugular. He was the most unstable person that Richie had ever witnessed, and if he wasn't scrunched up in a bathroom stall hiding, he would know not to stand in his way.

"Mark my words. Last day of school, we're burning this shit to the ground. We'll pick up gasoline and fuck this place up."

"Happy fucking summer," Hockstetter murmured into his cigarette as he lit up. That must have been what they came to the bathroom to do. He passed the lighter around to the group. "Don't your dad got gasoline?"

"Yeah. We should've done it today. I'm getting really sick of this faggy school." The group nodded. "If I gotta walk down that hallway and see that four-eyed faggot one more time, I'm gonna go apeshit."

One of the other guys chimed in, "Why don't you just cut out the school part? Kill the faggot and let's get the fuck outta here. My uncle got a farm in Pennsylvania."

"Yeah, and your uncle got AIDS, too. I should kill you for fucking looking at me." Bowers lit his cigarette and leaned against the sink. "And I could kill you, too. You know that, Belch? I know a hundred ways to kill--"

"Gun to the balls."

"--A hundred and one ways to kill, and that doesn't exclude you. Or any of you. I don't give a fuck."

"What's wrong with you? Did someone look at you funny?" Hockstetter could perfectly perch himself onto the porcelain sink and it wouldn't even budge. "If you could off one kid from this school, who would it be?"

Bowers thought about it for a moment. "I would've said Bill Denbrough, 'cause his v-v-v-voice makes me want to s-s-s-shoot myself, but today... I don't know. That four-eyed faggot Richie Tozier? Jesus Christ." The group nodded, except for Hockstetter.

He peered down at the floor and muttered, "Someone else is in here." The group went silent.

Richie could feel his heart beat in his ears and chills gallop up his spine. Suddenly, Hockstetter peered up and stared through the crack in his stall. His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward towards the stall, examining whoever was inside.

"Speak of the devil," Hockstetter sneered, his black hair swooped in front of his face. "I think you got your wish, Bowers."

"Huh? Move over." Richie could hear Henry unsheathe his switchblade and creep in front of the stall. When his eyes adjusted to the crack in the door, he smirked. "Jeez, look at him. Hey, Tozier!" he yelled into the stall. "Who's dick you suckin' in there?"

Richie stayed completely silent and grasped tightly at his knees. He'd left his glasses out on the sink while he was cleaning them and it was nearly impossible to see.

"Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock, no shit," Hockstetter murmured back into his cigarette, sneering at the group. "Go ask Beverly Marsh. Whichever guy she hasn't been with is a fag."

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he noticed Bowers creep down underneath the stall and--

He was back in the hotel room with his arms around Eddie.

Richie forgot what happened after that, but he specifically remembered visiting the bathroom after that and seeing "Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock" written inside the stall. He contemplated wiping it away with a wet paper towel, but for some reason he didn't. Maybe it was because he was afraid of Bowers coming after him again, or maybe it was because wiping that away during class time was the most pathetic thing he could think of.

He could feel Eddie slipping out of his arms and sitting up at the edge of the bed. Nonetheless, Richie pretended he was still asleep.

Eddie peered over his shoulder at the guy in the bed with him for a few moments. He seemed to be thinking about something deeply, but was quickly snapped out of it by his cell phone ringing. He rose to go answer it.

"Edward Kaspbrak speaking." He sighed, "Good morning, Myra."

Richie could hear her yelling on the other end and Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sweetie, I'll be home by tomorrow night. I've been stuck at this motel... No, no, why would I be with anyone? I'm here alone. I'm pretty sure there's no one else in this--" He went quiet and listened for a moment. "I'll get a rental today and I'll be in New York by tomorrow, okay? Listen, I'll talk to you later." He quickly hung up and placed the phone on the table before turning back to the bed.

He stood there, breathing, with his hands over his face and his eyebrows scrunched. A few memories of the previous night seemed to stream into his head. Somehow, he wished they was drunk, because then he would have an excuse.

"Richie, you up?" He stood with his hands on his hipbones. Then, he suddenly realized he was bare-butt-ass-naked and quickly grabbed his flannel slacks off the floor.

Richie groaned and rolled over onto his back. His hair must have been a mess--No, he probably looked like a mess period. He stretched his legs out and sat up, rubbing his eyes and adjusting to the light. The two made eye contact.

Eddie gulped. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he repeated, almost mindlessly. He still had his shirt on, but he was luckily covered from waist down with the blanket.

"You're awake," he stated. His hands were still on his hips, and somehow he looked in pain. His face was flushed with red as he ran a hand through his hair.

"About last night--"

"Don't worry about it," Eddie murmured, staring off to the carpet. His nose twitched and he had this perplexed look on his face. "I should get back to New York. Myra's pissed."

"I heard."

Eddie was quiet. His hands were stiff and his eyes were wandering the room. He was deep in thought. "Do you..." his voice trailed off, but he steered it back, "Do you want to... Do you have any plans? After we leave Maine?"

"Uh, I got a show next week. In Vegas."

Eddie nodded and continued to think. "We should... Do you want to go grab some coffee? I need a pick-me-up." He stared as Richie rolled out of bed and marched over to the sink, exposed from the waist down. He breathed in, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"What...?" Richie murmured groggily, splashing cold water into his face. He examined his reflection in the mirror before returning to the water. He rubbed at his eyes with it.

"Can you have, like, the barest amount of decency? The smallest shred of kindness?" He could see Eddie quickly gathering clothes into his valise and checking his watch. Richie rolled his eyes as Eddie continued. "I didn't want to address the elephant in the room, but you're making it super difficult."

"What elephant?" He backed away from the sink and finally turned around. Eddie was standing across the room, his hands bent around his hips and his legs stagnant. His face was flushed with blush and his fingers were almost twitching. He was a mess. It was somehow comforting to know that. "Is it about my pants?"

He made painful eye contact with Richie. "Oh, gee, Richie. I don't know. What happened last night? Let me see... Oh yeah. I decided to rent a room with my childhood best friend, away from my wife, and we had gratuitous gay sex. Ah, but whatever. C'est la vie." He started to fold the comforter back and even it out. He was trying to make the bed, but he was moving too quickly to properly fold it.

"...Housekeeping make the beds," Richie muttered before Eddie shot him a grim look. "I'm guessing you knew that."

"I want to talk about this. I want to make sure--" He stopped talking and thought for a second. His eyes darkened. "I want to make sure this was a one-time thing. I'm not gay."

"And I'm not gay."

Eddie sent him a look. "So we're both not gay and we both just had sex for what? Just for laughs?"

"You said it, not me."

"I'm not gay, Richie."

"I didn't say you were," Richie shrugged, picking up his boxers from off the floor. "You just took straight dick up your ass. Me and the bros do that all the time."

"I swear to God, Richie Tozier." He stuck a finger in the air and raised his eyebrows. "It was a one time thing. The last thing I need--The last thing I need is this getting out about--Wait, you're clean. You're clean, right?"

He squinted at him, his eyebrows suddenly arching. "What do you mean? 'Am I clean?'"

"AIDS. HIV. Acquired immune deficiency syndrome. You don't have it, right?"

Richie's shoulders lowered and his face glimmered of pure confusion. It eventually melted to puzzled exasperation as he began to pack up his clothing. "Why the fuck would I have AIDS?"

Eddie looked away and began to fumble with his hands. He stuttered, "Well, you... You know, a recent study showed that 1 in 6 homosexual males will get infected with the HIV virus within their lifetime, meaning that... meaning that if you..." He looked askance and his eyebrows knitted together, as if he were pleading for an apology. "If you happened to be gay, you would have a high likelihood of contracting HIV."

Somehow, this statement by Eddie was the dumbest thing Richie had heard in the past twenty years. It was almost unbelievable how bewildered and disgusted he felt in his stomach in that moment.

"Who taught you that? Your mother?" He zipped up his duffel bag and threw it over his shoulder. "I'm sure you're glad she's dead."

Eddie stood, frozen, his hands clasped tightly around the comforter. He seemed to be shaking somewhat, and his eyes roamed the room. "Jesus Christ, Richie."

"Whatever. Go fuck yourself." He pulled the pants from the floor up his legs and turned to exit, fumbling with the doorknob. He disappeared into the hallway.

It was six PM, sometime in the early 90s, and Eddie was perched on a loveseat in his living room. Married with Children was tittering along on the chunky television and there was dull rain splashing against the windows. It had to be sometime in autumn, since the air was thick and there were a few Halloween decorations still plastered up on the wall. The room smelled sweet and full, like something was cooking in the other room. It was relaxing to say the least.

He had a large red quilt wrapped around his body. It was given as a Christmas gift at least two years ago, but it kept him rather warm during the autumn and winter months. He nestled further into it as his mother entered the living room. There was something in her grip.

One hand was on her hip and the other was one a magazine. Eddie squinted at the magazine in her hand and his eyes suddenly went wide.

"Explain this." She stuck the magazine out in front of her for him to see. It was a Playgirl issue, one that Eddie had hid in the back of his closet for months. He hadn't even looked at that one in a while.

He bit his lip and thought for a moment, making eye contact with her. "I don't know what that is." He might've been shivering because he readjusted his blanket.

She lowered her eyes. "No, Eddie. Explain this. Where did you find this?"

"That isn't mine."

She sighed and turned to the television. Christina Applegate was saying something funny, but Eddie couldn't quite place it. She dumped the magazine onto the coffee table. "Did you get it from the Tozier boy? I told you to stop playing with those boys, Eddie."

He was quiet, staring off into the carpet with his hands fumbling in his lap. "No. I... I don't know what that is."

"Then why was it in your room?" He stayed silent and heard a dull beeping from the kitchen. He stared off towards it. "It's time for your inhaler. On your way out," she dumped the magazine on the coffee table as if she were holding contaminated evidence, "Throw this out. I don't want to see it again."

"What's... the problem--"

"Did I ever tell you about my one friend from New York?" she said calmly and almost condescendingly. "His roommate was a homosexual, and when he was around your age, he got infected with AIDS. Now he sits in his room with a catheter and a breathing tank."

Eddie gulped and fumbled with his hands, his wide eyes looking askance once again.

She sighed, "Eddie-bear, it's not that uncommon for young boys to experiment, but I don't like you being around that crowd." She noticed the look in his eye, the look that meant he was close to tears. "The last thing we want," she was adjusting the buttons of her blouse, "Is for you to get sick. You understand?"

A few minutes later, he was wrapped in a large black parka, fumbling around outside to find the garbage can. Just as he walked along the cracked sidewalk and crunched along the fallen leaves, he looked up and saw a familiar face.

"Jeez, Eds, who died?" Richie flashed him a toothy grin. He was wearing an ugly, brown windbreaker with a baggy pair of slacks, grey woolen gloves, and a rugged pair of white sneakers. He still had one of his baby teeth in the summer, but during the beginning of school, it was knocked out by Bowers and a hole was in its place.

He stood like a deer about to be railed by a minivan, his eyes wide and his hand holding the magazine awkwardly behind his back. Richie's eyes seemed confused yet still energized.

"No one. No one died." He shook his head. "What are you doing here?"

"I lent Stanley my camping stuff over the summer. He's finally returning it," he groaned ironically, smiling in that weird, harmless way. "They were having this Jew retreat thing. It was this huge, Jewish sausage party for, like, two weeks..." His voice trailed off as he noticed Eddie's arm twisted behind his back. He raised his eyebrows and murmured to himself, "What do you have back there--?"

"Nothing. Nothing!" In one swift motion, he stuffed it into the rusted, metal trashcan and smothered the top with the lid, deafening himself with the clatter of it all. He was blushing now, from the bridge of his cheekbones to the edge of his ears. He returned his hands to his pockets.

"No, come on. Lemme see." He extended his arm, but only managed to grace the edge of the lid before Eddie jerked it away. "What's the matter with you?"

"It's not something to show!"

"Come on. We show everything to each other. Remember that one summer with Bill and Stan, when we went behind the--" His words suddenly stopped as he noticed the cloud of tears forming in the other's eyes. He narrowed his own and suddenly looked much more uncomfortable than before. "Is it that bad?"

He nodded quickly and covered his mouth with his hand. Tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes, his face growing redder by the second.

"Do you..." Richie wasn't well-equipped to deal with such emotional turmoil. "Do you need a hug, or something?"

"No!" He said it almost too quickly, enough to cause him to jump back a little in his footing. Richie's eyes were wide with hurt and confusion, the discomfort almost melting away. "No, that's... I don't need a fucking hug."

"Whoa, whoa, sorry." He put his hands up and stood back. Richie adjusted his glasses slightly, as they were beginning to fog up from the cold. "I'm sorry."

"I... I have to go. Bye, Richie." He stumbled over his words, turning almost too fast for them to be legible. He left Richie on the edge of his stone walkway, with his hands in his pockets, and with the trash can eager to be peeled open.


	3. Randy's House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for explicit gore, sex, homophobia, etc. just a real cheery chapter

Richie received a phone call when he entered his car.

He was almost too pissed off and frustrated to really respond to it, and although he considered dropping it completely, he slammed the door shut and brought the phone to his ear. "Who is this?"

"Rich, it's Bill." He sounded sheepish and hangdog, his voice almost wavering. "We're all gonna meet up for dinner tonight. At the Mandarin."

"The Mandarin," he repeated, squeezing the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes. "What? To celebrate? What're your ulterior motives?" At this point, he was ready to drive off into the sunset and never look back, off to those whimsical dates in Reno followed by lackadaisical sex and a continental breakfast at the Bellagio. There were plenty of young twinks celebrating their birthdays in Las Vegas, excited for drinking absurd amounts of liquor and flamboyant performances. One would be bound to go to the backroom with him.

"We're all gonna get together before we le--" He hesitated over the word before finally spitting it out. "Leave again."

"Fantastic. Count me out." He revved up his engine and hovered over the radio. The west. That's where he belonged, with the _culture_. Not in the east with the cold air and terrible, terrible people. The people that couldn't take a joke if it killed them. It was easier to just leave and start forgetting again, although the thought of that made his stomach churn.

Bill sighed on the other end. "We'll be there at six if you change your mind."

"Yeah, and," he checked the clock on the dashboard, "By then, I'll be in New York, and I'll be catching a flight, so--"

"What happened? Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened. I just don't feel like staying in this shitty state anymore." He balanced the phone against his shoulder and began to buckle in his seat belt.

"Well, do you know where Eddie's staying? I can't reach him."

"If you can, tell him to go fuck himself." He was ready to hang up there, petty as it was, but he added, "Fucking bitch."

"O-kay, but if you come, it's BYOB. Beverly is really good at making girly drinks."

He hung up and dropped the phone in the cup holder. There was something about the mention of girly drinks that set him off, and although he felt incredibly irritated, he restrained himself from smacking his face into the steering wheel. Richie groaned to himself and angrily shoved his foot on the gas, pulling out of the parking spot.

The idea of getting shitfaced was honestly a dream at this point, but the chance that Eddie could be there tore him completely away from the idea. He got weird when he got drunk, to say the least, but somehow that made him excited.

It made him excited in the same way that taking a random pill made you excited. It made your heart soar into your throat and your stomach flip. The thought of it made him feel like puking up his breakfast--the one that he didn't have--and running in the complete opposite direction without looking back.

Fuck it. He was going.

When he walked in, the only people there were Bill and Beverly, who was setting up her bottles of various liquor. She had this bright, blushing smile on her face, and somehow her freckles seemed a bit more vibrant, although they were under clouds of makeup. Her manicured hands were gently wrapped around the necks of her bottles, her lips pursed as she made conversation. When they were kids and Richie didn't feel attraction to her, he knew he was gay, 100%.

The two of them looked up at Richie, who had his hands awkwardly buried in his pockets. They both seemed dressed formally--Bill with a dress shirt and slacks, Beverly with a floral cocktail dress--and Richie seemed suddenly unprepared.

"Richie!" Bill shot him a warm, albeit nervous smile. "What was that phone call about?"

Richie pulled up a chair and lowered his eyes. He was lost for words and he trailed off, "Phone call... phone call? Which phone call? You've gotta be more specific." He pushed up his glasses and grabbed a bottle of Beverly's fireball. "Can I borrow this? Thanks."

The two were silent before Bill cleared his throat. He eyed the shot glass that Richie was filling to the top. "...The phone call before. I think you were in the c--" He paused on the word and then continued. "I think you were in the car, about to go to NY."

"Mm, can't recall." He took the shot, the whiskey slithering down his throat and burning as it went down. "I'm a simple man--I see an alcoholic beverage, I get shitfaced."

"I supposed," Beverly retorted, a tad of concern in her voice. She gave him an up-and-down look before refilling his shot glass. "You said almost the same thing last time. You know, when we walked in with Ben."

"Oh, did I? I hadn't noticed." He glanced around the room, his hands awkwardly fiddling together under the table. His leg was bouncing, his boot clicking against the floor--If his teeth started chattering, he wouldn't be surprised. "You've ever done a blowjob shot?"

She stared at him with a confused, humored look. "Of course. I went to college, too," she laughed, her manicured fingers intertwined with her vibrant red curls. "In fact, we should get started on these drinks. Or should we wait?"

Bill started, "We should--"

And Richie finished, "Definitely get started. Good idea, Bill." He avoided Bill's puzzled, irritated glare and instead watched as Beverly pulled a sleek bottle of vodka out from under the table. Her clear, pristine bottle of Absolut vodka poured a generous helping into her shaker. She then unveiled bottles of Kahlua and 7-Up, finishing off the concoction with a devilish smile across her face.

"This one's called the Mind Eraser. Or the Mind Fucker. Or the Mindfuck. It has a lot of fun names." She mixed it jovially, shaking it from under the table to around her head. "It's not really my cup of tea. I like my drinks on the sweeter side."

He was going to agree with her and say something like "Ah, me too, I love sangria", but suddenly there was a lump in his throat and a pain in his head. Beverly didn't seem to notice him cradling his forward, as she was catering to Bill's shot glass. Richie furrowed his brow and held at his forehead, his eyes scrunching as he could feel a strange headache coming on.

_Predator._

"Fuck," he bared through his teeth, covering his face with his hands. The headache grew deeper and more prominent, swelling from the front to the back of his head.

_Molester._

Reflexively, he kicked his leg from under the table, hitting one of the table legs. Beverly and Bill turned away from their alcohol to look at him. Bill cleared his throat, "Are you alright, Rich? You're not looking so hot."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Whatever," he leaned back in his chair and eyed the shaker in Beverly's hand, "Can you just fill up my glass?"

Although there was a glimmer of resistance in her face, Beverly poured Richie's shot and watched him down it fast. She smiled, "So you're not going to show me?"

"Show what?"

"The famous blowjob shot," she grinned, tightening the cap on the shaker. "I used to be really good at them, but one time--"

Her voice seemed to fade out, along with Bill's laughter and their excited greetings as Ben and Mike joined the table. They each said something to Richie, but it couldn't be absorbed. He glanced around the room, his hearing faded, and felt the headache return again.

_You can't keep your hands off anything. You never could._

He rose from the table abruptly and sprinted off to the bathroom. If he was about to have a panic attack, it would have to be surrounded by a men's room stall. He slid by a waiter carrying a plate of drinks and practically fell through the bathroom door, which led to a thankfully empty bathroom. He sat down on the tile in a handicapped stall and waited for the swelling in his head to subside.

_You're disgusting for doing that, you know. And now they'll be talking about what you just did, and then everyone will--_

The voice was too loud to just be an intrusive thought. Was he actually going insane? Hearing voices wasn't something that just happened, not something that just occurred one moment and disappeared the next. Or was it? Could Beverly have slipped something into his drink? Why would she do that? Why did he come here? Did he just want to--

_You're a predator, and a bad one at that._

He slid down against the tile, feeling his breathing quicken and his chest rise before deflating. His breath was stuttering and frail, as if something were trapped in his windpipe. He attempted to sit up, but felt slightly attached to the tile below him, as if something were holding him down. He sunk his fingers tight against his face, hard enough that they were pushing against his eyes.

_You could've taken advantage of anyone your sick heart desired. That's what Reno was about. Barely legal, drunk twinks, your hands down their--_

"Fuck!" He didn't mean to scream it, but that headache was really starting to hurt now, and although he must have been causing a scene, luckily no one came into the bathroom to look for him. If he was really going crazy, nobody would accidentally walk in on him.

_Like I was saying, hands down their pants. A predator. You could have taken advantage of anyone, and you picked the smallest one of the bunch, Eddie Kasp--_

"Fuck! You!" He instinctively whacked his head forward, slamming it into the stall door. He repeated this, banging his face repeatedly into the powder-coated steel until he could feel blood leak from his nose, yet somehow it was impossible to stop. It almost felt like someone was behind him, grabbing a hold on his neck and just going to town. The thought of that made him even more nauseous.

He could feel the lens' of his glasses break into tiny pieces, the glass piercing his skin and the plastic dent in the most awkward of places. His mouth was filled with blood, and oddly something else, something white and sticky that seemed to leak down his chin. He shoved himself back off of the partition, sliding back along the tile, the headbanging finally finished.

He gasped for air, his breaths shallow and his heart beating so loud he could feel it in his ears. Richie pulled the remains of his glasses from his face and dropped them lazily to the floor. He glanced down at his hands, now cut from glass, covered with blood and something white. The sight of it caused his stomach to churn, and automatically he flipped over and hurled into the toilet, his body crumpling against the porcelain.

He laid there for a few moments before sitting back on his knees, the room now blurry without his glasses. When he felt his breathing finally rest, he leaned forward and flushed the toilet, the bloody vomit swirling out of view. Gross.

Just as he finished this, the door to the bathroom swung open and a foot stepped inside.

"Richie? Are you in here?"

"No," he croaked, sinking down against the bathroom stall's partition. "Fuck off."

He was quiet, with his clean and shined shoes resting on the tiles, his back against the sink. "Richie, I'm sorry. About everything."

"Uh huh," he groaned, wiping the blood from his upper lip. He sat up from the glass and blood, his vision dazed and his headache subsiding. "Me too. I suck."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"No, you--"

"Eddie, I do. Please, just let me have this," he retorted, agitated. "Jesus, fuck, I think I have a concussion." He felt at his forehead, which was covered with that familiar, chilly blood.

"What?"

"I have a fucking concussion, that's what I said."

"Okay, okay. Open the door," he cautioned, his voice uncomfortably still. Richie lazily raise his arm and unlocked the door, which his back was resting upon. The second it clicked, Eddie yanked open the door and Richie fell backwards, staring upwards at the ceiling. "God!"

"Hey, Eddie."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he took a step back, his eyes wide and his pupils as tiny as pins. Eddie's hands moved over his mouth, astounded by the sheer amount of blood in front of him. "What the fuck happened?"

"I fell."

"Uh, no shit," he gasped, backing up slightly. "I'm calling 911."

"What? It's that bad?" He rose slightly, sitting up on the back of his elbows. His eye was swelling up, smothered in blood and shards of glass. "Jeez, you could've fucking told me..."

"...What happened?"

He was quiet as he thought it over. "I had a panic attack."

"You had a panic attack."

"Yes."

He shot him a unconvinced yet concerned look. "Okay, just..." He extended his hands and cautioned Richie to lean against the partition. "I'm going to go call Bill--"

Richie stated firmly, as firm as a bleeding-out man could provide, "Do _not_ call Bill."

"Can you just explain to me what happened?"

"No. No, I can't. But I need... I need an ambulance. So please quietly call 911," he nearly groaned, his shoulders faltering. He slurred, "I think I'm gonna pass out."

Eddie nodded vigorously, "I figured, I figured. Okay." His voice dripped with panic as he pulled out his Samsung. He punched in the emergency number and waited as the operator began to speak.

It really was a mess. There was a large dent in the stall where he smashed his head into it, there was a medium-sized puddle of blood surrounding his legs and covering his hands, there were small shards of glass from his crushed glasses smothered around in the liquid, and to top it all off, he was there. Right in the middle of it. He gazed up as Eddie with a warm, hazy look in his eyes.

"Hi, Eddie Kasp--No, shit," he started formally, and then quickly melted back into panic, "Fuck, my friend is passed out in the bathroom. At the Mandarin. There's a lot of blood. Like, a lot. Yes, the restaurant. He's conscious, I think. He's giving me this weird look," he mused, staring down into Eddie's dreary eyes, "And I don't know if he was assaulted or... Yes, that's the address. Yes, thank you. Thank you, again."

He continued speaking fast into the receiver, his eyes still wide with terror and his hand shaking against the phone. Richie glanced around, not absorbing much of anything, before he suddenly lurched forward, a knot stuck in his throat. He gagged for a moment before coughing up a few blood clots and red liquid. The concoction lurched from his throat out onto the tile, spilling out into the bloody puddle before him. "...Fuck."

"Richie, Jesus Christ--Are you coming? Thank you. Okay, thanks. He's--No, thank you." He quickly hung up and chucked the phone off onto the counter. Eddie knelt down beside him and, although the gory sight made him one to bleach the entire bathroom five times over, he swept the tiny shards of glass out of his hair reluctantly.

Richie's eyes slowly floated over to his and he groaned, "It's still here."

"I-I figured."

"I felt him last night," he murmured, all expression leaving his face, "I'm so sorry about last night."

"About what? No, no, don't be," he cautioned, biting his lip. "We'll talk about it later, okay?"

"It was in my head--that _fucking_ clown. He was in my head," he breathed, his eyes hooded. "I saw him. The deadlights. He's in my fucking head."

"Okay, okay..." He was still at Richie's arm, feeling it up awkwardly in a stunted attempt to comfort him. "What did you... Well, when Bev was in the deadlights, she saw our future. When you were in the deadlights, what did you see?"

Richie sat there, his mouth slightly agape and his lips parted, his eyes wide and wandering for an answer. He stared downward at the bloody and shattered-glass-covered tile, and his pupils somehow appeared to be shaking in their irises. He turned and his gangling, curled-up body faltered, causing him to crumple against Eddie, his whole body quivering slightly.

It caught Eddie by surprise, propagated by his arms sitting stiff by his sides. He slowly lowered his arms around his bony and long back, his hands gently grazing the fabric of Richie's T-shirt. Once he was comfortable with this, he held him closer, feeling Richie's body shake as he sobbed.

"Richie..." He held him tighter, feeling the other lean tenderly against him. His whimpering quietly stopped and he sat back, his face now covered in bruises, blood, and salty, salty tears.

"Don't. I'm fine." He settled on the thought for a second. "No, I'm not fine. You called the ambulance, right?"

"...Yes--"

"Fantastic."

Eddie took it upon himself to drive Richie home from the hospital, and although he was calm and contained for most of the visit, he drove home like his tires were on fire.

He rambled, plowing through red lights and skidding over the asphalt, "Pneumonia. Fungal pneumonia. Bullshit. I should've told the doctor right then that it was bullshit. I think he knew it, too. Fungal pneumonia and no concussion. I mean, look at you. You look like hell."

"Thanks."

"In the kindest way possible, you look like you got hit by a bus. And this jackass tells you that its just 'fungal pneumonia' and you don't even have a minor concussion. We should sue. We should honestly sue. You remember that guy who went in to get his leg amputated, and they amputated the wrong leg? Malpractice. What if you die? Then we have a case and we can sue."

Richie craned his head against the window, leaning into his seat belt. "Eddie, please shut up."

"No, I'm not going to, until I get to the bottom of whatever the fuck's going on." He thought to himself for a moment before dialing down the radio. "You know what, come back to New York with me. We'll get you a real doctor."

The statement hung in the air for a few moments. Richie glanced over to Eddie, as if he were trying to reaffirm if he meant it or not. "The doctors here are fine."

"No, they all suck." He swerved to the right, making his way to the next exit. "Tomorrow, I'm driving you to New York. You're getting a real diagnosis. We waited almost an hour in that waiting room. I fucking hate this state."

"What about tonight?" He took a quick glimpse over at Eddie.

He was silent before he started, "Well, maybe we should talk about last night first."

Richie gulped, turning his head to gaze out the window. The streetlights were fluttering by like low-hanging stars, and the highway-side thickets mixed together into a green, dark blue blur. "If you want."

"So..." He settled his hands on the steering wheel and gave it a firm pat. "I gotta... call Myra, and tell her I'm going to be a day late."

"Yeah."

"You know, Rich," he bit his lip, lost in thought again, "I enjoy our time together. Honestly."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly." He smiled, his slight crow's feet indenting deep into his eyes. "I feel like I can trust you, with a lot of things. And I have a lot of things going through my head right now."

"Like what?" He slowly turned away from the window, giving his full attention to the person next to him.

"Like... My wife, for example. Myra. We've been together for five years now and... I didn't necessarily make the decision, and even if I did, I don't like the decision I made, if that makes sense." He was stuttering over his words, and although Eddie rarely looked nervous, when he was, it was so obvious it hurt.

Richie considered this. "You don't love your wife."

"I appreciate and respect Myra, but I do not want to have sexual intercourse with her, if that's what you're asking," he stated, way too quickly to absorb. "Let's stop talking about it."

"You brought it up!"

"I brought up last night because I want to talk about it. I want to talk about what happened," he stated bluntly. "I haven't done anything with Myra in, oh, months? Maybe even years. I've drifted so far away from questioning my own sexuality that it's... It's not even part of my life anymore. I don't even know if I'm straight or not."

Richie contemplated this and shut off the radio altogether. "...I kinda relate, but, like, in a complete opposite way."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, I've had enough flings and one-night stands to make it worthless to me. I honestly don't give a fuck if I get married or not. Is that dumb?"

"As a married man, no. God, no." He pulled into the motel's parking lot. The door was still ajar slightly and the building seemed to be breathing--its small, ramshackle facade rising and falling with the wind, the trees shivering beside it. Once he parked, he sat back into the driver's seat, his hands in his lap and the seat belt still across his chest. "I wish I was like you, Richie."

He heard it, but he pretended he didn't. However, once a few moments of absolute silence had passed, he retorted, "Why?"

"I wish I wasn't a coward, with everything. With my... orientation."

He jumped on the statement like a cat on a mouse. "Eddie, I am a hundred percent scared of my sexuality, if that's what you're questioning."

"No you're not."

"I've been afraid since I was twelve fucking years old, and I'm, what? Forty now? And I'm more scared of it than anything else. More scared of it than my family, this goddamn state, or that fucking alien clown. I'm scared, all the time." He gesticulated every word, almost gritting them through his teeth. "And more than anything, I'm scared that what we have here is gonna be forgotten. Like whatever happened twenty years--"

"Let's have sex."

It stopped Richie dead in his tracks. His brain was still ready to start ranting again, but the sentence that Eddie emitted stopped him completely. His mouth must have almost been agape, his eyes making perfect contact with Eddie's, and his face warming up ever so slightly. "What?"

"You're right. I don't want to forget this. I want this to continue." He unlocked the car. "I want you to take me into that motel room and fuck me."

Richie was taken aback slightly. He gulped and ran a stream of fingers through his hair, thinking for a minute. He managed to murmur, "Alright."

He was having an awfully difficult time with the motel room's doorknob. The flimsy key they were given barely moved the lock at all, and it was only a minute in when Richie realized he was holding the key the wrong way.

Eddie was leaning on the wall beside the door, his eyes only slightly hooded and his hands resting deep in his pockets. "Your hand's shaking."

"I know that," he snapped, finally opening the door with one hand and unbuttoning his slacks with the other. "My brain isn't necessarily clear right now--I wonder why."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do you happen to like dirty talk?"

"Immensely."

"Me too. What a coincidence." Eddie closed the door behind them, his back now against it. Richie stared at him with his arms awkwardly bent at his sides, his hands on his own hips. The tension was palpable, to say the least.

They mashed together after a second, with Richie pressing against the other's chest and their mouths interlocked. To call it sloppy would be an understatement, and although Richie still wished he was near-blackout drunk, having sober sex was more fun, he assumed. There was an unnerved emptiness deep in his stomach, sending butterflies through every nook and cranny of his chest cavity.

The kissing was rough, maybe three and a half stars out of five, but the way Eddie was slightly grinding against Richie made him hard as a rock. He could feel like tightening of his stomach and that warm in his core almost uncomfortably. It was sick.

He moved a hand down Eddie's back, past the dip of his hips and below the crease of his ass. He honestly hated that word. There was no word in the English dichotomy that could describe that part of the body as sexy. You simply had to acknowledge it was without painting it with any actual terms. Butt? No. Buttocks? Worse. Rump? Never. Ass was the closest you could get, and almost every other word was painfully unattractive.

But he digressed.

He grasped the other's underside roughly, feeling every crevice--from the dip of his balls (another gross word) to the brim of his--You know, fuck it. There are no pretty words for lower male anatomy.

Richie continued to buck his hips, although it made an ruckus against the door. He almost wanted to undo his pants, lube up his dick, and fuck Eddie right there, but something stopped him, and it was probably because wall sex seemed way too tiring right now. He skipped it and decided to just keep kissing him, sucking on his bottom lip slightly and feeling Eddie run his fingers through his hair.

"...Goddamnit, I want you inside me," he murmured, almost too low to properly hear. It sent a hefty stream of blood down to Richie's crotch. "I swear, I never thought I'd hear that come out of my mouth."

"Yeah, and don't stop it." He smiled into the kiss, feeling his hands sink down Eddie's thighs. "That gets me so fucking hard." He cupped at Eddie's bulge, slowly undoing his zipper and button to free it.

He attempted to stifle a moan by rambling. "I want to ride you so bad. Remember in Neibolt after the--whatever," he didn't mention the deadlights, "And I was on top of you? If I wasn't covered in clown juice and sewer crap, I'd been fine sitting on your dick."

"You're so stupid."

"What? Why?"

"Clown juice is free lube, dumbass." He smiled and wrapped his fist tightly around Eddie's cock, stroking it ever so gently. "And the lube's by the bed, so we better--" He clicked his head to the side to gesture to the singular king size motel bed. Goddamnit, the one bed. Eddie really was a bastard to have booked it.

They made their way over there, somehow, with Richie hand still wrapped around the other's dick. Eddie laid down first and Richie followed suit, a haunted and determined look across his face. "I haven't been this horny since I was 16 and I discovered cable porn."

"You really know how to talk dirty, huh?"

"I'm trying my best," he laughed, giving the other a few quick jerks of his fist. "I just want to see what you look like when you're impatient, and all riled up and stuff. I can't imagine you coming undone like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he sputtered, pumping his fist emphatically. "You've got such a pretty cock."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh jeez, I'm smitten," he said in a monotone, although a small grin was peaking on his lips. "Please, continue talking about my forty-year-old penis."

"You're killing the mood, Eddie," he almost growled, smiling to himself as he laid himself beside the other. "I'm used to younger guys. It's a change."

"How much younger? Not like, a creepy younger, right?"

"Like an acceptable twink kind of younger."

"Alright, I can understand that," he gasped, trying to relax against the sheets. "You're gonna fuck me, right? You're not just gonna give me a handjob."

"Oh, no. I was gonna bring you to the edge, say goodnight, and sleep my ass off."

Eddie smacked him against his forehead, which caused the other to laugh under his breath. "That isn't funny, asshole. No, stop laughing."

"You're cute when you get pissed."

"I'm aware." He snarled for emphasis, which made Richie laugh even harder. He laid beside him, his head in the crux of Richie's shoulder, his chest close to the other's arm. "Fuck."

"I like when you swear. It's like a garden gnome screaming 'fuck'."

He blushed slightly, bucking his hips somewhat to get a little friction. "If you're trying to get me riled up, it's working."

"I've been using spit as lube for the past minute, so let me just..." He released Eddie's dick from his grasp and rotated his torso, rummaging through the bedside drawer. Eddie gasped at the sudden chill of the motel air, the hand that was bringing him within an inch of his life now gone. When Richie squeezed a dollop of baby oil into his grip, it made the most obscene noise, and he was being obnoxiously slow with it.

"I know this is getting you hard, too, dickwad. Can you just finish the job?"

He pursed his lips as he ran the lubricant through his hands. "Mm, nope."

Eddie sighed, "I hate everything about you."

"Okay, shut up. I'm gonna give you a choice," he cut in, shooting him a sympathetic look. "We can continue doing this, or..." He patted his crotch for emphasis.

"I reiterate." He lowered his eyes. "I hate everything about you."

"So is that a yes or...?"

Eddie groaned, although there was a tad of sweetness to his voice. "It's a yes."


	4. Heated Swimming Pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another porn chapter. maybe this fic will have a plot at some point

It was 1991, Richie Tozier just turned 15, and they were having a sleepover. And by sleepover, Richie meant forcing everyone to verse him in Street Fighter II on his brand new SNES.

For the first hour, Stan had held him off. Stan was exceptional at video games, since that was all he did besides watch birds and recite the Torah (or whatever else Richie thought he did). He had a copy of the game already and would leak new tidbits of information to Richie throughout the month leading up to his birthday. First of all, there were more characters, and second of all, one was a girl. A hot girl.

Stan and Bill would talk--Well, usually it was just Stan talking to Bill and Bill pretending to listen--about how there was a secret cheat where you could take off the girl's clothes. You had to defeat M. Bison twice and then if you input a few buttons, Chun-Li's clothes would disappear. Bill called bullshit, but the idea of seeing an Asian, pixelated lady with her tits out made him slightly interested. Nonetheless, they settled to try that another night. Today was a tournament.

They were sitting in Richie's living room--Stan beside him with a controller, Bill laughing with Mike on the couch, and Eddie sitting by the window, silent. Ben was busy that night and Beverly wasn't allowed to go to sleepovers, on account of her dad and his policy with boys. They each had bowls of popcorn between them and a whole night to kill.

"I don't know if you know this Stan, but bigger always mean better. Take for example my massive wang."

"Just because your character is bigger doesn't mean he's better. He's slow and clunky and--" Stan barred his teeth and swore under his breath as Richie got a hit on him. "You're just mad I picked the better one."

"Nuh-uh. You picked some bitchy China chick, and you only picked her to look at her legs."

"I did not! She's a good character." He uppercut Richie's character, who happened to be Zangief the Russian. Richie dwelled on the Character Select screen for a few moments, hovering between Zangief and Chun-Li. Something about Zangief interested him more.

Richie scrunched up his nose and mocked, "She's a good character... I wanna see her dumplings, err, I'm Stan."

"Spot on. Fantastic."

Bill chimed in, "You really captured his e-e-essence."

"Thanks, B-B-Bill," Richie retorted, laying a hit on Stan. "I've been getting really good at this... and..." Stan landed one final uppercut on Richie's character, sending him flying into the air and down to the rough dirt. K.O.

"I win."

Eddie unrolled from his station at the window. "Beep, beep, it's your tenth loss of the day." He sneaked over to Stan's side and tore the controller out of his hands. "Move it. I'm gonna kick Richie's ass."

Stan tossed his hands in the air, as if to say he didn't care, and nestled between Mike and Bill, who were having a staring contest for the past thirty minutes. "You know, anyone can beat Richie. I'm not special."

"Yeah, no shit. My mom could beat Richie in Street Fighter." Eddie grinned and sat on his knees beside Richie. His small, tight fists were cupped around the SNES controller, his eyes dancing around the Character Select screen. Richie watched him silently, almost forgetting to make a snide remark.

"Your mom could beat my meat, too, but you're too scared for that conversation."

"Fuck you, Richie," he said almost automatically, focusing more on the choice at hand. "Okay... Dhalsim. I pick Dhalsim."

"I guess I'll go with Guile."

Eddie shot him a glance and the two made eye contact. "Are you ready to get your ass beat?"

"Yeah, right," he chuckled, turning back to the TV screen. "Dhalsim sucks. Everybody knows that. Even Mike knows that, and he doesn't even have a SNES."

"Hey!" Mike chimed in, not breaking eye contact with Bill at the risk of throwing the staring contest. "Eddie doesn't have one either. Eddie didn't even have a TV in the house until he was 12."

"My mother was cautious about the potential medical consequences of in-house video gaming systems. It was a very valid--" His voice cut off as he realized Richie was actually landing some hits on him, and good hits at that. "Jesus Christ."

"Huh? What were you saying?" He landed a few low hits, moving from side to side as he threw them, his controller grasped tight in his hands. "Was your mom scared that she'd catch you jerking it to Zangief?"

"Ew! Shut up," he grimaced, jabbing Richie lightly in the side. "That isn't funny."

"It's so funny." Richie stole a glance over at Eddie, who was becoming more frantic as his health dipped. "With hes beeg schlong and hes beeg hands and hes beeg vodka," he croaked in a God-awful Russian accent.

"One day, you'll say something so dumb and so stupid that God Himself will smite you."

"Yeah, whatever," he laughed, landing one final hit on Dhalsim, beating Eddie in the first round. "Wow. I didn't think someone could suck that bad at Street Fighter."

"Round 2. You're gonna be my bitch," he almost snarled, staring directly into the pixelated screen in front of him. It didn't matter that sitting this close to the screen was bound to damage his eyesight. He was going to beat Richie Tozier if his life depended on it.

What happened after that? Only Heaven knows.

All Richie could think about was the body laying behind him, nestled into the sheets, spooning a pillow. He wasn't facing him, due to the fact that he was distracted by the cigarette between his fingers, but he could hear Eddie breathe. He could practically feel his chest rise and sink, the line between sleep and consciousness blurring.

He took a quick hit from his cigarette and blew it out the window, the grey clouds floating sheepishly into the frigid, night air. His hand had finally stopped shaking and his leg had stopped bouncing. The convenience store had run out of menthols, but Marlboro's were good enough. Cigarettes after sex was way too good to be true.

"Wow," Eddie murmured into his pillow, arching his back as he stretched it. "This is the longest you've gone without making a stupid comment."

"The night's still young, Eds." He smiled into his cigarette, taking a long drawl from the tip.

Eddie sat up and rolled over, now sitting behind Richie. He wrapped his arms around his collarbone, letting them hang lazily across his chest. He drooped his head into the crux of Richie's neck, smiling into the embrace. Richie leaned back into him, humming slightly into his cigarette.

They sat like that for a few moments before Richie groaned, "I seriously gotta stop smoking."

"You should."

"I should," he breathed, staring coldly at his cigarette. "But not today."

"You've been smoking since we were kids."

Richie nodded, his bare chest nearly shivering from the cold air. Eddie wrapped his arms around tighter, pressing the front of his chest to Richie's back. He sighed into his neck, sending a shiver down Richie's spine. "I've done more than that. I shot heroin in Vegas once."

"What?"

"I'm kidding. It was Reno."

"Richie!"

He laughed heartily into the cool air, a smile gracing his face. "I'm kidding. I'd never do heroin without you."

"You better not," he muttered, holding him closer. "You tired?"

He shook his head, his eyelids hanging low. "A little, but no, not really. I'm just... thinking."

"Thinking? About what?"

"Oh... I don't know." He brushed the notion aside with his hand. "Well, first of all, you. And this. And what we're doing here."

He was quiet. "I'm thinking, too."

"About Myra?"

"I'll never be the man anyone wants me to be. I've been lying."

"Me, too."

"And being here with you," Eddie mumbled tightening his grip, "Proves it."

Richie slid his glasses off his nose, catching them in his hand. The corner was still a bit bloody from the other night and there was a crack in the lens, but it was otherwise healed. Somehow, he wished it were shattered completely. Then there wouldn't be a chance to fix it, and he could get a new pair.

He chucked them onto the side table and rubbed deeply into his eyes, plunging his knuckles hard into his eyelids. He rubbed until that milky, gross feeling left his head, and then he laid down on his side, pulling Eddie down with him. They laid on the bed, side by side, in almost perfect silence.

"I--" The words were choked in the back of Richie's throat, and he desperately wished that Eddie would pick up where he left off. He had so much to say and no will to say it. "I'm gay."

"Me, too," Eddie answered, a bit quicker than Richie expected. "I always was."

"No shit. You're born like that."

"No, I mean, like for you. I think. Since we were kids."

Richie flicked the cigarette out the window and shut the pane with his foot. "I have a very distinct memory of that sleepover--my fifteenth birthday party. With Stan and Bill and Mike. I remember you came over and we had a fire pit, and you and I went outside by ourselves to put it out. After the Street Fighter game--"

"Where I kicked your ass."

"You? Beating me? You should be writing my material," he snickered, turning to face the other. "But, anyway, we waited for ten minutes for that damn fire pit to go out, 'cause Mike was nervous about it and he was gonna come outside later, and you kept giving me this look. I couldn't describe it, but when I looked at you, I just remember your smile, and I remember feeling so dirty. And that's when I knew I was in love with you."

Eddie stared back at him, his expression nearly blank but also warm. He was almost perfectly still, lying there completely bare, his skin covered in the hazy night. His hands were laying peacefully on his chest, resting slightly above his ribs and gently fiddling with one another. He was posed like he was being fit into a coffin.

"...You remembered that?"

"Only that. The rest is," he gestured wildly with his hands, waving his fingers, "Blurry. Lost to history."

"I figured. I remember..." Eddie didn't move from his corpse-like position. "I remember a lot. Well, okay, I didn't remember a lot. I remembered this one time with a magazine--"

"What type of magazine?"

"Porn. Very vanilla stuff, and my mom found it. I forgot how I got it, but it had lots of naked men with weird sideburns."

Richie giggled, "Aw, is that your type?"

"Did you just giggle? You're a grown man."

"Anyway, your porn stash. What'd you do with it?"

He gave a deep sigh, his chest rising and falling unceremoniously. "My mom told me to chuck it, so I went outside and while I was there, I was greeted by the most annoying gremlin I'd ever seen."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really. And he happened to be my childhood crush, and my childhood crush couldn't know I was a faggot, so I threw it in the trash and ran away."

Richie nodded. "It was Bill."

"It was you, dipshit!" He smiled, and when Eddie smiled, it was the simplest, sweetest thing in the world. "It was you."

"That's all you remember?"

Eddie's look of contentment faltered slightly before melting completely. He stared up into the popcorn ceiling, his hands still fiddling on his chest like he was trying to untangle an invisible knot. His eyes slowly turned to peer into Richie's, a feeling of treachery across his face. "I remember when you got fucked up by Bowers, but I'm guessing you remember that, too."

He shook his head. "No, enlighten me."

"In the bathroom? With the knife and the--" He caught himself and started again. "We went to my house after with Beverly. I remember when we put Neosporin on the cut, you cried like a bitch."

"What cut? What bath--" Richie sat up, remembering being trapped in the stall. The events after slowly faded into his memory, one after the other. He narrowed his eyes, as if widening them would let the thoughts slip away. "What was it he carved? In my stomach, right?"

"'F'," Eddie murmured, eyeing the bottom of Richie's abdomen, "For flamer. Or faggot. I remember it was right here." He jabbed a finger into Richie's side, but he didn't even flinch. "It healed really well. I can't even see it anymore."

"Well, it's been thirty years." He let the words slip out, defeated, and he laid back down. "And I still feel like this. I still feel bad." Richie laid his forearm across his face, covering it from view.

"About what?"

"About me being..." He smirked a bit, "Look, I can't even say it, I'm so... grossed out, with everything I've done."

"What have you done?"

"More like everyone I've done, now that I think about it." He lowered his forearm, revealing a glassy look in his eyes. "I've been... filling a void. But, like, I don't want to address that the void's there. I don't want to accept what I am."

Eddie sat up on his elbows. "So," he started, a bit of agitation at the end of his voice, "You're telling me that I have sex with one guy, I call myself gay. But you have a history spanning thirty years and you can't even look at yourself in the mirror? What does that say about you?"

"What does that say about me?" He sat up suddenly, his manner turning defensive. "I don't know, Eds, why don't you diagnose me? What's your risk analyst brain think of me, huh? What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should hold me down, that's what! And fuck me. And let me tell you, if there's something wrong with you doing that, then fuck it. You're an awful person, and so am I."

Richie eyed him cautiously, feeling time itself stand still. He guessed the pillow-talk-intermission was over, but something about he back hurting, and something about the way he rolled his eyes, made him so much more aware about his age. "Eds, if you want to suck my dick, be my guest. I'm not getting up," he sighed, laying back down.

"Aw, come on. What are you? Tired?"

"No, I'm lazy. Big difference," he murmured, turning over to face Eddie. "If you want some lazy, sleepy, unsatisfying sex, I'm open for business."

"Fuck that. I'm a forty-year-old, sexually-repressed man who's never gotten dick in his life up until now, and guess what, Trashmouth? You have a dick! So I'm not very picky," he continued, turning himself over and fitting his hips on top of Richie's, straddling him. Richie didn't budge, although his eyes were wide and he looked slightly taken aback. "I always end up doing all the work anyway--"

"Bull. Shit." Richie snatched the bottle of lube from the bedside table. "You wouldn't survive without me."

"I'm saying it now: If you cum before me, I'm seriously going to kill you."

"Then don't have such a tight ass. Problem solved." Eddie gave him a light slap on the shoulder. It made Richie chuckle, and hearing him laugh made the other smile. Anyhow, Eddie was more concentrated on the lube at hand as well as removing his boxer briefs.

"I hate you. It's unbelievable that you turn me on," Eddie said, lowering his eyebrows. "I'm pretty much prepped already, right?" He was slowly stroking the underside of Richie's cock, staring at it in boredom rather than anything else. He trailed his fingers up and down, almost teasing him in how slow he was going.

Richie watched him, his eyes hooded, his arms behind his head. "This is just what I needed from you, Eds. More teasing."

"When you said unsatisfying, you weren't kidding." Eddie moved his strokes to his hand, finally evolving his gesture to a handjob. He could catch a glimpse at Richie's face, which had sunk into slight interest. He laid a kiss on the tip of his head, noticing that reddish color develop along the tip. Getting his face close to his cock was almost enough to make Richie squirm, with his hot breath and his curious tongue. It was downright obscene what sounds Richie made under his breath.

"Can you just sit on my dick already?" Richie rarely got frustrated, but something about Eddie keeping him up and denying him this made him borderline pissed.

"In a minute."

"I'm gonna be fucking you against this headboard in a minute."

"Promise?" Eddie learned that one from Richie, but somehow Richie didn't find it very funny. Nevertheless, he continued jacking the other off, looking as if he were about to start whistling in a few seconds, he looked so relaxed. Richie, on the other hand, bucked his hips every so often and was this close to biting through his lip.

Before Richie could make another comment, Eddie slid down onto his cock and straddled his hips, staring down into his dark, blue eyes. Richie rested his hands on the other's lower back, holding him in place.

"Fuck," he drawled under his breath, almost biting his tongue to prevent it from escaping. He didn't even realize Richie moving underneath him, bucking and rolling his hips, staring down at where they joined. "...You have such a nice cock."

"Oh, thanks. It took you long enough."

"Fuck," he repeated, breathlessly and heavier than before. "Damn it, I love you."

It came out of nowhere, that L word. Eddie had both his hands on either side of Richie's torso, holding him up as he rocked forward and back. "I love you, too."

"If you really loved me... you'd actually fuck me against that headboard."

"I'm taking my time, Goddammit." He rested his hands on the other's hipbones, letting him get some bearings before finally rocking his hips. "It's four fucking AM."

"I'm leaving today," he huffed, almost angrily. "So unless you want to come with me to New York City, I want to--"

"I'll come," he said too quickly, as if he were waiting for him to ask all along. "If you let me, I'll come."

"Don't you... Don't you have a show?" he breathed, resting one hand on the headboard.

"I'll cancel." He paused. "Let me flip you over."

"You can't cancel," he replied, letting Richie shift him over to the side of the bed. Richie stood behind him, his chest against Eddie's back, his breath quickening as he continued bucking his hips. "What about... What about tickets? Don't people buy tickets to that?"

"Tickets to what?"

"Tickets to your shows. You can't just cancel." He moaned out the last word, attempting to keep his composure.

"Fuck it. Watch this." He stopped moving and instead grabbed his iPhone off the bedside table. When he finished dialing a number, he continued bucking.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm calling Travis."

"Who the fuck is Travis?"

"My manager, hold on." He let it ring for a few moments before leaning down into Eddie and laying his chest on his back. When the other end finally picked up, he responded with an innocent, "Hey, Trav. How ya doin'?"

Eddie heard grumbling on the other end of the call, but he was too busy being on the edge of orgasm to really understand it. He moaned under his breath, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Yes, I'm aware it's four AM, but I was wondering if we could cancel the Vegas show next week. I got a tight schedule." He emphasized the 'tight'. "Well, what? That's the end of our west coast shows. I can make it to the east coast shows. If that helps."

Yeah, they were having sex and, yeah, Richie just so happened to be making a business call, but Eddie was still torn between making noise or not. If the roles were reversed, Richie would be moaning like a goddamn porn star just to spite him. He settled on just moaning his name.

"No, I'm not drunk. I'm making business decisions. I can't make it to the Vegas show next week, so cancel it." There was noise on the other side. "Whatever. Refund it. Say I got pneumonia or something, I don't know." He was approaching his climax, evident by his breath hitching and sweat running from the top of his back to the back of his calves. "Fuck, yeah. Or just reschedule. Postpone it or some... thing."

He must've sounded delirious. There was no way to convince anyone that Richie didn't sound drunk or near-climaxing, with his slurred speech and occasional moans he disguised as profanity. Furthermore, Eddie was feeling a bit dickish today.

"Fuck!" he crowed, loud enough to feel Richie sending death glares down his neck. "Right there. I'm so close."

He muted the phone and said through gritted teeth, "Can you please shut the fuck up?" He leaned closer into him, practically breathing down Eddie's neck, and propped himself up on the headboard.

"Not with that nice cock of yours inside me."

"God fucking--" His words cut off as he concentrated on retracting and bucking his hips. "You really know how to charm a guy."

"Ugh, I've been thinking about it for thirty... fucking years." He smiled into the pillow, moaning slightly. "Thinking of you just... holding me down and... fuck..."

"You're close?" His thrusts were growing messier and more haphazard as time went on.

"Yeah," he slurred, moving a hand to grab at his own dick, rolling his hips into his hand. "Fuck, get back to your phone call."

Richie remembered and went to grab his phone off the side of the mattress.

It was unmuted.

And just as he realized this, Eddie finished.


	5. Hate Song for Brains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst chapter, internalized homophobia, the works

"Fuck!" He said, exasperated. "Oh, fuck!" He hung up the phone.

"Yeah, come for me--"

"No, dipshit! My phone was still on!" He shoved Eddie's head into the pillow, finally finishing, although it was more sporadic than he would've hoped. When he was done climaxing, he pulled out and flopped down on the bed, not knowing what to do with myself.

"Wait... what?" He turned over from his obscene position to face Richie, who was covering his face with his hand. "The phone wasn't on mute?"

"No! No, it wasn't. Somehow it unmuted."

Eddie was speechless, although his face was growing pink and his eyes wide. "...Who were you calling again?"

He groaned, "My manager."

"Oh," he responded matter-of-factly, as if that were a completely normal thing to be doing. He sounded almost defeated. "Well, why did you call him in the first place?"

He was at a loss for words for a moment before remembering. "You kept saying, 'No, you can't come. You can't come with me to New York. You're busy,' and I'm so not busy. I can make plenty of time--plenty of time," he reiterated, "And if we can do this forever I'll never go to a west coast show again."

"You're so stupid!"

"I wouldn't've muted it if you weren't being a dick about it, making so much noise!" he argued back, his eyes narrowing. "I would've finished the call, but you were being--"

"I was being what? I was being what, Richie? Spit it out!"

"You were trying to get me pissed!"

"I was not!" Eddie's eyes darkened and something about his expression changed. "You wanted him to hear you, right?" He was yelling now.

"No, no, you don't under--"

"No, I understand. Because you're a perv! You're a creepy gay guy trying to drag me down with you, is that right?"

Richie was speechless.

"Is that right?" he repeated.

"I..."

"And now everyone's gonna know, right? Your manager's probably calling news outlets and publicists--Everyone's gonna know. And then everyone's gonna know you don't write your own material, right? And then this whole shitty empire you've built yourself is gonna crumble... right?"

"No--"

"And you know it, too. You know it's fucking disgusting. You know you're a predator, and now you're trying to drag me down--"

Predator. That word was familiar. Eddie kept speaking, but somehow it faded into the back of Richie's head. He looked out the window and kept thinking about it. Predator. Where had he heard that before? Was it from a movie? It felt like a clue. It felt important.

He turned back to Eddie, who was still rambling and yelling loudly, and that's when he saw it: The eyes. The yellow tint in his eyes and this strange expression on his face. Predator. That was from the restaurant, wasn't it? That's what he was thinking of in the bathroom.

"You took advantage of me. You used me! And by God you're a predator!"

He froze. "Eddie, you remember the sleepover?"

"Yeah, and? You can't keep running forever! Running from this fear, this thing you have inside you. You can't run from that!"

"What game were we playing?" he said calmly, his eyes widening at Eddie.

"How am I supposed to know? Stop changing the subject!"

He rose from the bed and turned to the nightstand. Eddie's words began to falter as Richie gripped the metal tree of a lamp beside them. He held it over his shoulder before swinging it into Eddie's head.

Eddie would never forget the time he beat Richie at Street Fighter. That was for certain.

The second the hilt hit the side of Eddie's cranium, his eyes flickered off like a light. His body laid limp against the headboard, his eyes still opening and wandering. He was staring upward, a large gash in the side of his head, before his eyes made their way to Richie's. His teeth were obscured by the edges of his mouth, but they were smoother now, almost doll-like. Richie watched him, stunned.

Out of his mouth poured black blood, clotting on the edge of his collarbone and down his Adam's apple. Lower, on the base of his ribs, grew a slit, tearing open up until it reached the base of his neck. His skin peeled back to reveal the deep wound, the black blood swamping in the comforter below, a smile reaping from his lips--

And just like that, he disappeared. Richie was lying in bed, with Eddie on top of him again.

He pushed Eddie off of him, screaming obscenities as he did it. Eddie fell off to the side and stared at him, perplexed and concerned. Richie continued to shout before he melted into pathetic breaths. He brought his knees up to his chest and covered his hand with his mouth. He must've been on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Richie, what..." Eddie cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows curled against one another as he laid a hand on Richie's shoulder. He jerked at the touch. "What's wrong?"

He breathed fast until his breaths became too hard to process. "I..." He ran fingers through his messy curls, his eyes shutting. "I had a vision. Or a hallucination. I was..."

"You were what? What happened?"

"I..." He released the breath he was holding. "I gotta get out of here. I gotta get out of this fucking state," he said, rising.

"You should wait until morning. Well, later morning. It's only four--"

"I don't--"

"--Or you could come back to New York with me." That triggered something in him.

Richie shoved his thick, sweaty fingers into his unwashed hair, pulling it back as he haphazardly yanked his pants on. "No, no! I'm not... No, I can't."

"What's gotten into you?"

When the pant leg wouldn't cooperate, he dropped it back onto the floor. "That fucking clown!" he admitted, exasperated. "That fucking clown has been making my life a living hell for thirty fucking years! He's been in my head! And we kill him, and he's still there! So what's the fucking point?!"

Eddie paused and absorbed what Richie said before calmly asking, "What did you see?"

"You... and me, and everyone finding out, and I looked at you and I saw that clown. So I took that lamp," he pointed to it, rambling over his words, "And bashed your fucking head in. And there was blood--there was a lot of blood--and you were laying there and..."

He contemplated for a second, still resting in the middle of the bed. "You know it isn't real. You're okay."

"I'm not! I'm very clearly not!"

"Well, I'll be here until you are, alright?" He groaned and looked away, biting his lip as he said it. "I want to make sure you are."

"...Where did we leave off? I mean, what was the last thing we were doing, before I had this... episode? Because in my head we just had some really nice sex," he groaned, as if he wished he could return to it. When was the part where Pennywise joined the picture? The thought of that, the thought of that intimacy made him want to vomit.

"You were... reaching for the drawer and then you paused, and now you're saying a lot of stuff that doesn't make any sense."

"Have you been getting these visions? These... these little scenes playing out in your head? These... I don't even know what to call them. Have you been getting them?" He asked, almost desperately. It sounded more like a plead, but Eddie's puzzled face gave no answer.

His mouth was agape. "I... No, Richie. I haven't."

"Pennywise is still here, and he's in my head, and he's having a fucking field day." He must have sounded insane, with his hands interlaced with his hair and his eyes wandering madly across the room. He sat down. "I saw you, with blood coming out of your mouth, and being ripped down the middle, right here." He jabbed him in the chest. "And you were smiling at me, like I did it."

"It's not real--"

"It's still fucking weird! And awful! And terrifying! And I don't know what to do. I don't know what I can do. We killed him, and now he's--" He cut himself off when a thought came to his head.

"It's the deadlights, isn't it?" Eddie asked quietly, as if he didn't want to process it himself. "They really messed you up."

"No, of course it's not. It wouldn't be."

"You don't have to tell me," Eddie began, but then thought about how disconcerting that would sound in this conversation. "If it's hard for you."

"It's not hard for me!"

"Then why haven't you told me?"

Richie sat on the side of the bed, his face darkened and almost stiff. There were splotches of wet, flowing tears sinking down his face, but he wasn't crying. His eyes were simply getting moist and glossy, overflowing onto his cheekbones. There wasn't a single glimmer of light in his eyes and his lips were tightly woven together.

"Richie, why haven't you told me?" he repeated.

He remained silent before murmuring, in a husky way that sounded like he didn't want Eddie to hear, "I don't want you to worry."

Eddie thought about this for a moment. With Richie sitting next to him, a hopeless wreck, swamped with whatever disgusting thoughts were cycling through his head, it was impossible to look him in the eye and tell him you were leaving. "You're coming to New York with me," Eddie concluded, staring into the other's shifty eyes, "Because you need someone. I know it."

He whispered it into his hand, almost biting into his knuckle, "I don't need anybody." His voice cracked at the end.

"Yes you do. Everyone does."

"I'm not everyone."

"Richie Tozier, in the past twenty seven years, have you had anybody? Like, a serious someone? Someone you can confide in?"

"Have you?"

Eddie didn't expect that, and he stuttered over saying, "Yeah, of course. Myra."

"If we're going by that standard, no. I've never gotten married just to satisfy my fucking mother." There was venom in his voice.

"Ooh, low blow." He rolled his eyes, but his face slowly turned to cold stone, his eyes repeatedly glancing over to Richie as if to reaffirm what he said. "You've had friends, and you've had a lot of flings, if that's what I'm hearing, but have you ever... settled?"

"I don't need to settle."

"Can you stop beating around the bush and answer my goddamn question?"

"Can you imagine me settling? With a big, nice house with a white picket fence and a wife and two kids and a... a fucking golden retriever? With my job and my... Whatever! Do you think I could do that?"

"Who said you needed a wife? Who said you needed kids?" Eddie had this frustrated look in his eye.

"When you think settling, you think of starting a family, dipshit!"

"Tell me, Rich, did either of us have real great families?" Eddie asked, cocking an eyebrow.

His brows furrowed and his threw his hands in the air. "Fuck it! I was the only one out of all of us to have a great family! I was the only one to have a mother that loved me, or a father that wasn't batshit! And fuck, maybe that makes me feel bad, you know? Maybe it makes me feel bad that my parents kicked the bucket before I gave them anything." His hands curled into fists as he finally yanked his pants up to his waist and twisted his fingers around the sides of his head. "I gave them nothing!"

"You didn't give them nothing--"

"Oh yeah, I sure did! What do I have? I'm a comedian and I'm not even funny, for Christ's sake! I got a boardroom of LA rejects writing my fucking stand-up. I'm a borderline alcoholic. I dropped out of college. I'm a single dude in his forties, and I can't even admit to myself that I may indeed be a faggot, so please let me have this, Eddie!" He'd finally snapped, and his voice had his maximum volume. "I'm done! I'm getting out of here."

Richie slid off the bedspread and marched over to the door. Eddie didn't object or say anything much, besides letting his mouth hang open and his eyes stare. He watched as the other left the hotel room, never to be seen again.

Or at least until ten AM, when Eddie woke up.

He would have been perfectly fine resting in the creases of the hotel comforter, but of course there was the dreaded phone call coming from in between the sheets. He rolled over groggily and pulled the comforter aside, seeing the phone vibrate as he raised it to his ear.

"Eddie Kaspbrak speaking--"

"Eddie, you're starting to scare me."

He squeezed the space between his eyes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. "Good morning, Myra." He could hear her gasp at the other end.

"Are you just waking up?"

"Yeah, why?" He checked the time on his phone. "I'm leaving at twelve."

"I thought you were leaving at ten."

"Well, Myra, it's ten right now," he started sweetly, finally sitting up in bed. "And I haven't taken a shower yet--"

"I'm getting worried about you! You keep pushing this further and further and... Are you there alone? Because if I were leaving to meet some 'old friends' and I stayed longer than expected, there's only one real reason to do that, isn't there?" Her voice was high and snarly, as if she was waiting to unload this all night. "I want to make sure you're faithful."

Her groaned as he tossed his legs over the side of the bed. "Myra, of course. I'd never do something like that to--" His eyes popped open, the realization suddenly hitting him. He saw Richie's duffel bag across the room, his familiar Hawaiian polo slipping out of the zipper. "I gotta call you back."

"What? Excuse me, Eddie, I still--"

He hung up the phone and tossed it into the comforter. He rested like that for a few moments, letting his legs hang down on the carpet, his arms folded in his lap. That's when he heard a familiar moan.

Richie was on the couch, slumped over the leather with his arms flung over the sides. He was drooling--one arm resting against the cushion and the other grasping a bottle of bourbon. His glasses were tossed on the carpet, that familiar crack in the side of the glass. His mouth was slightly agape and his eyes were lazily closed.

"...Rich?"

"I got fucked up."

"I can tell," he replied, slight concern in his voice as he rose from the bed. His lower back was killing him, but it was probably from the way he was sleeping. Definitely nothing else. "Where'd you get the bourbon?"

He gestured down the street with his free hand. "Liquor store. Open 24/7."

"Ah."

"Want some?" He sat up, completely naked except for the unbuttoned flannel wrapped around his torso. His five o'clock shadow was looking deeper than ever. Richie took a generous swig.

"Are you drunk?"

"Plastered." He wiped at his lip, his eyelids hanging halfway down and his posture now upright. "I'm goin' to New York with you, right?"

Shit. He forgot about promising that. "Well yeah, but you have to take a shower."

"Wanna join me?" he slurred, a lazy smile spreading over his lips.

"Richie, come on. Wake up. Cold shower time," he stated firmly, extending his palm to help Richie stand. He took his hand and pulled Eddie down on top of him, pulling him close to his chest. "Richie, it's too early for this."

He slowly wrapped his arms around Eddie, tightly holding him close to his bare chest. He smelled overwhelmingly of Old Spice and alcohol, with a touch of cigarette smoke. Eddie allowed himself to be smothered, just for a moment, before demanding, "Richie, take a shower."

"Are you getting breakfast?" he groaned.

"We can pick up Starbucks on the way--"

"I want an Egg Mc-fucking-Muffin, biitcchh." He held him tighter, but luckily it was just shy of being uncomfortable. "You smell, like, really good."

"Alright, alright, we'll go ten miles off the route just to get you an Egg McMuffin. But if you get into my car, sit on my leather with your bare-ass, I'm gonna fucking kill you--"

"I like when you get mad at me," he slurred, almost laughing at it. "You're such a fucking bitch when you get mad."

"Excuse me?"

"Nah, nah, that's really hot. Like, fuck. My dick is a fucking compass. Whenever you're near me it points north. Haha..." His voice trailed off at the end as he rambled, slumping forward into Eddie. "I haven't gotten laid in like... Bruh... Not a year... A long time. I can finally nut in something other than my shower drain."

"You're so annoying when you're drunk."

"Care to join me?" He shook the bottle between his fingers.

Eddie slid off the couch and sighed, heaving a deep breath out of his lungs. "I'm gonna get some food and when I get back, if you aren't showered and dressed, I'm gonna lose my mind."

And ten minutes later, when he got back from Starbucks, Richie was indeed showered, but not dressed.

Eddie had walked through the hotel room's door, expecting an organized room with a well-to-do Richie sitting on the couch, waiting for him. Instead he heard God-awful singing from the bathroom and a load of steam floating above his head. He was playing music on his phone, loud enough to be heard through the paper-thin walls, and he was drunkenly singing along with it. Every other line was incorrect and off-key, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Richie, they had an egg sandwich at Starbucks, so I just picked up--"

"What?" he called over the cacophony of music emitted from his fifth generation iPhone. "I can't hear you."

He raised his voice, placing the to-go box on the dresser. "The Egg McMuffin. I got you one from Starbucks instead."

"Eddie, you're such a cunt."

"Hey, I don't like that word." He checked himself out in the mirror, gently combing his hair up with the side of his hand. His blue polo was slightly wrinkled, but nothing that a good iron couldn't fix. He'd been rewearing the same outfit for the past two days and if he didn't use the motel laundry, he probably would've started to feel gross by now.

"Sorry."

He shook his head in disgust, as if he was recounting all the moments from the nights before. Really, he did that? He stayed in an unknown area, cheated on his wife of more than five years, and was looking utterly wrecked, all for the man singing ABBA in the other room.

"Richie, what're you doing?"

"Jerkin' it."

"Can we please get this moving?" he shouted over the music, exasperated. "I told Myra I'd be--we'd be leaving by twelve."

"Uh huh," he yelled through gritted teeth.

"I told you we had to leave fast." He knocked on the bathroom door for emphasis.

He could hear him breathing on the other end, his breaths growing shaky. "I'm in the shower. What do you expect?"

"Richie, unlock the door."

"Wait--"

"Richie," he stated, firmly, "Unlock the door."

"It's unlocked," he gasped, defeated.

The shower was still on, with the gentle pitter-patter of the water droplets hitting the porcelain and the frothy steam pouring out of the top. Richie was covered, thankfully, by the floral shower curtain, his silhouette slightly peaking through. His iPhone was still playing music. This time, it was "Died in Your Arms" by the Cutting Crew, another pick that Richie called "disgustingly 80s."

"I'm just brushing my teeth and getting ready. You know, like what you should be doing," Eddie groaned, unzipping his toiletry bag and pulling out the titular red toothbrush. "Instead of banging out your morning wood."

"This could be done a lot faster," he admitted, finally turning off the shower.

"Just splash some cold water on it. We gotta get a move on."

"No, I'm close." There was a brief silence between them as Eddie finished brushing his teeth, listening in to see if Richie would say anything else. "Shit..."

He ran a comb through his hair and checked himself in the mirror again. "I'd bet you'd like my lips around your dick, huh?"

"Fuck, yes--"

"Well, sucks to be you. I just brushed my teeth." He could hear Richie groan behind the curtain, and that somehow made him smile. "Is this all just a ploy for me to give you a morning bee-jay?"

"No... but fuck, that'd be nice."

"Hm. I should really be getting packed. Good talk." Eddie began to turn away before Richie stopped him.

Richie pulled the curtain aside, revealing his disgustingly wet, blushing facade, his hair messily clinging down the sides of his head. He was leaning against the side of the shower, that dazed, drunk look in his eyes and his hands wrapped around exactly where Eddie thought they'd be. He looked wrecked.

"Don't make me beg for this."

"I can do as I please."


	6. Catalina Fight Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff chapter

"You're killing me, Eddie." He stepped out from the shower, resting his hand on the side of the sink's countertop. He had nice hands--strong hands, like the hands that would look comfortable wrapped around anything. Thick fingers with defined knuckles, soft yet rough to the touch. And, due to the shower, dripping wet and blushing.

His eyes wandered to his lower half. Light as a feather, stiff as a board. There was a smile across Eddie's lips, but it was the kind that meant he'd won. He had the high ground and he was going to get what he wanted. "You should have listened to me the first time. Now we're gonna be late."

"To what?"

"Myra's expecting me."

"Divorce that bitch," he slurred, leaning against the countertop. He brushed those defined fingers through his curls with one hand and continued jacking with the other.

"Richie, you're being ridiculous." He rolled his eyes, but he felt a sort of warmth deep in his stomach when he said it.

"Fuck it. Marry me instead," he laughed, cocking his head back as he hit a particularly nice rhythm. "We'll move out to Cali and get a Pomer... a Pomeranian. I'll settle." He was rocking his hips into his fist, staring down at the floor. A groan escaped his lips, but it sounded more like a grunt than anything. "I'll do anything for you."

Eddie smiled as he finished packing up the toiletries. "You don't mean that."

"Ugh. We'll go to Malibu, sit by the beach..." He pumped his fist faster. "After we'll go to... fuckin'... I don't know, fuck!" He finally finished into his other hand, his eyes almost rolling back as he did it. He was panting, sighing to himself, "We'll go to the Bahamas or something..."

He was hopelessly drunk, lost in that glowing, orgasmic bliss. Eddie knew that, and that was Richie's excuse. He didn't mean anything he was saying. He couldn't. Richie never got this sentimental, especially around Eddie, and he certainly never fantasized or told him his dreams. When teachers would ask where he saw himself in ten years, Richie would say something vague, sitting back in his chair, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

"Come on, honeymooner, you gotta get packed."

He turned to the sink and washed his hands slowly, letting the water roll over every inch of skin. "I packed already."

"I doubt it."

"Go out and check," he murmured, gesturing to the door. "Pass me my shirt. It's on the shitter."

"Please don't call it the shitter," Eddie groaned, passing him the infamous beige Hawaiian shirt. Richie Tozier was the only man he knew that could turn any sentence obscene. It was his only talent, and maybe if he used it in his comedy acts, he'd actually be funny. He shows were honestly a waste of talent.

He pulled the shirt sleeves over his arms, buttoning them up after. Halfway through, he realized he buttoned it wrong and had to start over. Eddie watched in bewilderment, wondering that while Richie was drunk, he probably would have gotten it wrong sober.

"I'm serious, though. We should get married." He pulled up his black boxer briefs, followed by his dark slacks. When he said it, he looked into Eddie's eyes, although there was a murky fog behind them. They were facing each other and there were only a few inches between them. "You can plan it. I feel like you'd like that sort of thing. Like, picking the flowers and the cutlery and shit."

"Of course, me doing all the work." However, Richie was completely right. Myra liked to plan weddings, too. The only issue was, all her ideas were awful. Or maybe Eddie's ideas were bad, because that's how Myra made them seem. Nonetheless, he started to rebutton Richie's shirt.

"Motherfucker, you'd give me the flower catalog--"

"Flower catalog?"

"Lemme finish. You'd give me the flower catalog and I'd pick grass or something... You'd pick, like, roses. Really pretty roses. Or daisies. And it'd be an outdoor wedding, in a really pretty park... Ugh, that's all I want." He smiled slowly, letting his body lean against Eddie as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

"Richie, you're heavily intoxicated right no--"

"And I mean everything. I wish I did it sooner," he groaned, pressing him against the wall as he embraced him. "Oh, I've missed you."

They really should've gotten a move on, but his shirt was so soft and his breath was so warm on his neck. It was heavenly, with that whiskey aroma and slight stubble rubbing against the side of his head. His freshly ironed slacks were pressed against Eddie's, his warm skin rubbing against his.

"I've missed you," he responded, moving his arms around Richie's back, trailing his hands across his skin. He sighed as Richie pecked a kiss on his neck, blush spreading from his nose to his ears. "And I'd love if you helped me bring these bags out."

"Whatever you want, Eds."

He hated every station Richie picked. Every. Single. One. They were all awful, but somehow Richie kept getting worse with every suggestion.

"Come on, Eds. You gotta help me here. What're you feeling? 80s soft rock or early 2000s ska?"

"Didn't you used to be a radio DJ? How are you that bad at picking music?" Eddie rested his skinny, shaking hands on the wheel, his brow furrowing as Richie nonchalantly browsed the radio stations. "And ska? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Post revival? Pop rock? 70s ballads? Rap? How about some of Today's Hits? Christmas--"

"It's August."

"Alright, alright. Not a holiday guy. I get it. I feel like you'd be kind of a folksy type..." He turned the dial on the rental station wagon, trying to locate the folk pop channel.

"I don't actually listen to a lot of music."

Richie gasped before settling on 80s hits, which he was almost certainly going to pick from the beginning. "Even when we were kids? You never listened to music with me? I feel like you're bullshitting."

"You think I remember anything pre-college? All I remember is that stupid Street Fighter game."

"Call it stupid one more time and I'm turning on the ska." He thought for a moment and then leaned over the center console into the backseat, unzipping his duffel bag. "I actually have a CD in my--"

"You packed a ska CD but you forgot toothpaste."

"Toothpaste won't get you laid."

Eddie was so puzzled and disgusted that he shook his head, ignoring him. "Congratulations. That was the least sexy thing you've ever said. That's it. That takes the cake."

"Really? That was the winner?" He fished out the CD before examining further into his bag. "I have a few more CDs, if you want a selection."

"Please. Enlighten me."

He took out a stack--one way bigger than Eddie expected, and laid them across his lap, examining them fondly. "Okay, here we are. 'Greatest Ska Hits: 2001'. I've been holding onto this baby since I was addicted to heroin."

"You keep making these heroin jokes and now I'm starting to believe it."

"Anyways," he said, ignoring him as he further explored his collection. "Broken Social Scene, Bob Dylan, Kendrick... I got some smooth jazz CDs from one of my shows. Some guy came up to me and asked if I wanted some for, like, five dollars, and he'd throw in a free car wash. He ended up carjacking me but whatever."

"Please, I want to hear something other than you."

"Wait, do you have an aux?" he asked, flipping over the center console in search of the cord. "I have a Spotify playlist for every mood. What're you feeling, Eddie? What's your mood?"

"Regret."

He gasped. "That's my favorite." He jammed the newly-discovered aux chord into its port, plugging his ancient iPhone into the other side. "Regret, regret, regret..." he rambled, scrolling through his list of playlists, "Right here: 'Music to listen to when you fuck up really bad.'"

Eddie didn't know any of the songs on the list, but he didn't know many songs in general. It didn't matter, because Richie was tipsily singing along to some old ditty and seemed to be having the time of his life. His legs were up on the dashboard, his hand tapping along on the door, a smile on his face. It somehow made Eddie feel the same way.

Halfway through, however, Richie had this dissatisfied look on his face and he went back to fiddling with his phone. "This is too depressing, Eds. We need some bops--Oh! Wait," he rushed, clicking on the forward button. "Here we go."

That fucking saxophone solo. This dipshit was playing Careless Whisper.

And singing along to the goddamn saxophone.

"What did I expect? What DID I expect? You're so gay."

"George Michael isn't gay," Richie said confidently. Eddie shot him a look and he asked back sheepishly, "Wait, is he?"

Eddie nodded quickly, sending him a confused look. "He was very much gay. That was his whole thing. Him and the other guy from Wham."

"No, Last Christmas was his whole thing."

"Beep beep."

"Ah, shut up. You know how many times I've heard 'beep beep' in the past week? I'm done with it. It's lost its charm," Richie spat, changing the Spotify playlist yet again. "Fuck it. Smooth jazz time."

"I'm gonna pull up to me and my wife's apartment, covered in hickeys with a gay man in my passenger seat, listening to smooth jazz."

"Damn straight."

"So you're sobering up now?" Eddie pulled his water thermos out of the side cup holder, taking a long sip from it. "I don't need to worry about your health and safety?"

Richie returned his normal posture, laying his legs on the dashboard. "Yeah. No headache this time. That's good."

"Ah, you get headaches?"

"Mainly sugar ones. I drink a lot of girly drinks--A lot of vodka mixed with sweet stuff. Coke and stuff."

"Yeah, I gotcha," Eddie sighed, turning up the volume. "Damn, this is nice."

"I'd never take you as a jazz guy." He sipped on his tall Starbucks americano. "I'd never take you as a jizz guy, either."

"I will literally pull over this vehicle and make you walk the rest of the way."

"You just want to see me run." Richie threw his head to the side and laughed, "With my hot ass."

"I'm going to kill you. It's official. I'm committing murder-suicide." Eddie narrowed his eyes and gesticulated with his one hand, happy that the road was almost completely empty. A smile crept on his lips when Richie started laughing harder, reaching that point where he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. "What? What's so funny?"

He continued laughing before his eyes quickly turned dead serious. "Eddie! Watch where you're going, fuckass!"

"What?" He look ahead and watched as he narrowly missed a squirrel running in the street. He was hoping the bump they hit was a rock.

"Eddie, you just hit a squirrel."

"No I didn't."

Richie lowered his eyes as he turned his head out the window, holding onto the side of the car. "Yep. Blood and guts are all smeared on your tires."

"What?"

"I'm kidding!" He turned back into the car, laughing as Eddie grew this panicked look on his face. "So, am I walking to New York? Because I don't know how Myra would feel with a sweaty old man coming to her door."

"You're not old."

He lowered his eyebrows and smiled. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

"You've got a few good years left."

"Whatever. What are you going to tell Myra? Like, what's my alibi?"

"That's not what an alibi is, dipshit. You're thinking of an alias."

He snapped his fingers. "Right. An alias. A made-up story. I could be anything--A client, a doctor, another risk analyst guy--"

"--Or you could just be a childhood friend."

"Yeah, but that's not fun, Eds. I'm talking a whole elaborate story of how we met up and had this mutual bond," he brought his hands together, "But then the cruel hands of time tore us apart--oh no!--but luckily, now we're back."

"That's oddly touching."

"And you're going to have dinner with your wife while I suck your dick from under the table."

Eddie swerved, blush spreading across his face. "Richie! Jesus Christ, I didn't want that image in my head."

"What?" He kicked his feet up on the dashboard, laughing hard again. "You don't want my lips around your cock?"

"No, of course I do. I just don't want Myra there, asshole!"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I didn't take Myra as the cuckolding type. But think about it! You guys are eating unseasoned Bird's Eye mixed veggies and really dry chicken cutlets, not enjoying each other's company at all, and she's all confused 'cause you're acting really weird. Like, weirder than usual. Like, making weird sounds and weird faces kind of weird--"

"--Richie, please--"

"And then, bam! Under the table! It's raw, American fellatio, baby!"

He pinched the bridge between his eyes. "Richie, I hate you. I've decided, once and for all, forever and ever, I hate you."

"What are you talking about? Inconspicuous oral is the American dream!"

"Honestly, what is your obsession with the American dream? You sound like our eighth grade English teacher, with your rants on white pickets fences and settling... What's your fear, Rich? What's behind those dorky glasses?" He meant to come across as mockingly insightful, but it came out as almost serious.

"God, if only Pennywise appeared to me as the economic state of early 1950s America, maybe I would have succumbed." Eddie laughed at that, because he always laughed at the dumbest shit. "Dumb clown only showed me internalized homophobia and my own funeral. Child's play."

"I have a serious question," Eddie began, lowering his voice slightly. "What if you were afraid of, say, werewolves? But you were also sexually attracted to said werewolves? Would you then screw Pennywise, as a werewolf?"

"What if you were scared of Eddie Kaspbrak shutting up? Would he actually do it?" Richie mused before Eddie gave him a light punch to the arm. "I don't know, Eds. Why don't you ask him?"

"'Cause he's dead, forever and ever, through and through. We ripped his heart out, remember? You called him a pussy or something."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess? By the end of it he looked--"

"Like a used condom? Yeah, I'm aware." He glanced out the window. "Let's change the subject."

It was around five PM, their car situated near enough to Hartford, Connecticut. They had driven for five hours and over 330 miles with no breaks up until this point. Now, thanks to Richie's constant complaining and pathetic suggestions, Eddie pulled the car into a rest-stop/mall conglomeration.

"Twenty minutes. That's it. I want to get back on the road. If you buy food, eat it in the car. Bathroom breaks should be kept to less than five minutes. Oh! And if there's a dryer for your hands, don't use it. It's a playground for germs." They walked through the parking lot. He half-expected Richie to hold his hand, judging by how tooth-rottingly sentimental he was that morning. Unsurprisingly, he was sober now, and simply swaggered next to him with his hands deep in his pockets. Eddie didn't know how to feel about this.

"Eddie, my love, if you keep directing me how to use a public bathroom, I'm gonna wash my hands with my tongue."

"That's--That's disgusting. Ew. Why the fuck would you say that? Honestly. That was awful," he gagged, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Richie had a smug smirk on his face, and that just made him more pissed. "Ugh. And I let that mouth kiss me--Gross. Disgusting."

He pretended to lick his hands with his tongue, making absolutely obscene noises as he did it. He laughed into his arm when he saw Eddie gagging again.

"Just for you, babe, I'll wash my hands, use hand sanitizer after, and then I'll touch the door handle with a paper towel," Richie crooned, finally returning his hands to his pockets. The word 'babe' shouldn't have made Eddie blush as much as it did.

"Okay, thank you. Just... remind me never to bring up public bathrooms with you again. I can't handle it." Richie held the rest stop's entrance door open for Eddie, which he gave a subtle nod to. "Or anything with you. I never want to speak to you again."

The rest stop was really just a glorified food court, with everything from Panda Express to Sbarro to Wendy's. The bathrooms were at the front, as well as the basic necessities stores where you could buy the toiletries you forgot to pack in order to make room for your 2001 ska CDs. "Aight, Eds. What do you want for dinner?"

"I'm going to the restroom. Just get me something that won't kill me." And with that, he was off, on whatever silly adventures that little man got himself caught in. Richie was left alone, in the middle of a food court, with $20 to kill.

What to get? Well, if he knew Eddie, half of the restaurants were taken off the table. No GMOs, fried foods, cancerous additives, red dye, any ingredient he couldn't pronounce or Google, and countless other food-related health scares that appeared in the last twenty years. He would also have to cross off Chipotle ("With the e. coli? Are you insane?") and Subway ("Did you know their bread is made from azodicarbonamide? Do you know what else has it? Yoga mats."). He heard Panda Express was bad news, but he forgot exactly why.

He wanted to buy Eddie's dinner first because, to be honest, Richie wasn't picky. His favorite was take-out, so he'd probably buy himself some near-toxic sushi or lo mein. However, Eddie was a different beast. He'd be the kind of guy to research kombucha before drinking it.

He decided on a hipster salad/frozen yogurt establishment. He couldn't pronounce the name, and it would eat into more than half of his budget, but he meant it: he'd do anything for Eddie. The yogurt selection was abysmal (only consisting of chocolate, vanilla, and mint, of all things), but the salad list was long and hearty.

There was the Caesar salad, Waldorf salad, Cobb salad, Mandarin chicken salad, Thai salad, at least three salads he couldn't pronounce the names of, a Make-Your-Own section, and an option to just roll the salad up into a wrap. It was honestly overwhelming. Even more overwhelming was the lady staring at him from behind the counter, her narrow eyes staring unemotionally into his neck.

"...Is the chicken fried? Or, like, is it something you wouldn't eat if you were, like, on a diet? Not like I'm on a diet, but like if I were, which one would I pick? Because, like, I heard somewhere that carbs aren't healthy, but I'm going to be completely honest that I don't really know what foods have carbs in them, other than, like, bread--But, whatever. Which salad is, like, the healthiest?"

The lady stared at him in vague bewilderment before sighing. "I'm sorry?"

"What's the best salad?"

"Mandarin chicken." He looked up at the menu, seeing the high price of $12 next to the name. It must've been the most expensive on the menu.

"...Uh, I'll have that. Yeah. But how big is it?" he asked, watching as the woman began making his order. She gestured with her fingers and he nodded, relieved. "Okay, yeah. Yeah, I'll have that."

By the time the order was done and Richie had paid, there was still no sign of Eddie. He brought a little purse of medication with him, so he was probably divvying them up in the bathroom to take during dinner. It gave him just enough time to order chicken lo mein at Panda Express and claim a seat in the center of the almost packed rest-stop.

Eddie didn't come out of the bathroom, but, rather, the convenience store by the front. He had a plastic bag that he slung over his shoulder and raw determination in his eyes. "Let's get a move on."

"What's with the bag?"

"I picked up some stuff. Let's go!" He jogged off to the entrance, giving Richie a deadly look as he slowly followed him. Eventually, they made it through the parking lot and back into Eddie's car. He passed Eddie his dinner. "What's this?"

"Mandarin chicken salad. It's got, like, little oranges in it."

He popped the lid and looked inside, biting his lip. The tension was killing Richie, but he soon noticed a subtle glint in Eddie's eye and a shrug on his shoulders. "They're called Mandarin oranges, Rich. How much was this?"

"Don't worry about it," he muttered, opening up his container of chicken lo mein. "I thought you liked healthy stuff."

"No, I just won't eat cashews, or soy, or gluten, or food with GMOs, or--"

"Are you gonna eat the damn salad?"

"...Of course. What do I look like, an animal?"

And they were off.


	7. Orange Julius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this is a fucked up chapter  
porn warning but like not the sexy kind

The moment--no, the second that the two of them approached the door to Eddie's apartment, the door popped open. It was almost like she was waiting for them, standing by the door and counting the seconds until her husband would return. Nonetheless, Myra Kaspbrak was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, and a peculiar look on her face. She was staring up at Richie, who was smiling back at her.

"I wasn't aware we'd be having guests," she murmured to no one in particular.

Eddie dropped his bags and gestured to the man next to him. "This is Richie. We used to go to the same school. We were best friends for, like, years," he nervously laughed.

Myra didn't budge from her stone-cold expression. "Is he sleeping over?" She sounded just like his mother when she said that, and her face almost curled into the same scowl. Eddie suddenly felt stupid for doing all this, maybe even a bit immature for bringing along an old friend to "sleepover". Richie ignored that.

"Yeah. Who's sleeping on the couch? You or me?" he grinned before Eddie elbowed him in the stomach.

Myra moved aside when Eddie began to lift his luggage again, pulling it awkwardly into their living room. Richie followed suit, dropping his duffel bag next to the pile, examining his surroundings. It was a nice place, alright. Real put-together.

"You should've told me about this before, Eddie. I was going to have a dinner party tomorrow and I really needed to clean the house..."

"Well, you didn't tell me about a dinner party on the phone."

She turned back to Richie, who was playing with a 2x2 Rubik's cube he found on the coffee table. When he noticed she was looking at him, he jumped slightly and adjusted his glasses. "It's really a pretty night. Not a cloud in the sky."

"Maybe it would be better if we do this another time. I'm really busy with calls..."

"Myra, we're all adults here. Richie and I can just go out if we're in your hair," Eddie reasoned, but something about that sparked something in the back of Myra's eyes. "What is it?"

"I just wished you thought of me before you made this decision. It's selfish, Eddie!"

You know when your friend is getting lectured by their parent and you have to sit idly by, being as quiet as possible? You know how awkward it is to visit your friend, excited for the time you'd be spending together, and it gets cut short by someone calling your pal "selfish"? Richie hadn't felt that way since he was twelve years old, but it seemed like that's just how Eddie lived on a daily basis.

"Well, he's here now. He'll sleep on the couch and he'll leave in..." He shot a glance over at Richie, who was still messing around with the Rubik's cube. "A week. Maybe less--"

"A week?" she nearly howled, slamming the front door shut with a crack that would make her neighbors jump. Myra looked like she was in pain, with the way her eyes curled and her mouth tightened. "Why are you doing this to me, Eddie? I knew you would do this! I had a feeling!"

"Richie and I will put away our things... You have a call, right? For the limo service? You and me will take care of that, and Richie can--"

"I don't like this. I don't like this one bit."

Richie dropped the cube onto the coffee table. "Hey, Ms. K, maybe you should cut your husband a little slack? I mean, his foot's halfway in the door and you're acting like he just... punched a baby or something."

"Who are you?" she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "I've seen you before."

"Oh, uh--I'm on SNL," he retorted, before adding, "Sometimes."

She pondered this before whipping her head around to her husband. "Eddie, is this the man you were talking about the other night? The one who always talks about touching himself?"

"That was in my Netflix special, yes. Masturbators Anonymous. That was the joke."

"It wasn't very funny."

"You see, the joke was--" he began to explain, a mocking smile on his face, before Eddie shot him a glare. "What? I'm helping."

"Rich, why don't you go wait for me in my bedroom?"

Myra corrected, her eyebrows furrowed, "Our bedroom."

He practically pushed Richie down the hallway, where he journeyed off into the dangerous chasms of Eddie Kaspbrak's master bedroom. Meanwhile, Eddie was face-to-face with his mother's doppelganger.

"I don't like him," she said, shaking her head, "Not one bit."

"You always have friends over, and I never say anything. Come on. He's harmless."

Richie pressed his head against the bedroom door, listening as Myra responded. "Did you see the way he spoke to me Eddie? I brought only the sincerest of politeness, and he starts talking about... Oh, I don't like it. I don't like it, Eddie!"

"Look, we went to a restaurant the other day and--"

"You what?"

"With some friends. And Richie hit his head real bad. We had to go to the hospital, and I'm just making sure he's alright. That's all." Although that was the main reason, something about it felt fraudulent. He gulped as she stared, looking askance.

"I didn't see a scar," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "But I trust you, Eddie. You wouldn't do anything to hurt me... Did you take your pills today?"

"I-I did."

She walked towards the kitchen, her voice trailing off, "You know how sick you can get... when you don't take them."

With a chance to leave, he bounded off towards his bedroom door and, upon opening it, he was pushed against it, closing him in. It caught Eddie by surprise, but when he saw Richie's smug expression in his face, he melted.

"Rich, no. We can't do this."

"Come on--"

"I have to help Myra with her limo service, Rich. You're gonna be here alone for a few hours. Think you can manage without me?" he laughed nervously.

His smugness faltered before it inevitably returned, an idea in his head. "Alright. Sure." He pushed himself off the wall, sitting down on the bed. "You go have fun."

He was shocked Richie wouldn't put up a fight, but shrugged, "Just call me if you need anything."

Oh, and he was gonna call him alright.

Maybe it was a bad idea, and maybe he was being a shitty person, but he had a plan. Oh Lord, Richie Tozier had a plan, alright, and it involved a bottle of vodka.

First phase of the plan--get tipsy. Okay, maybe the rest of the plan was cooked up after he got tipsy, but that didn't matter. The point was, Richie was embarrassingly blitzed, and uncomfortably horny. It must've been that strange tension from the car ride, or the thought that he was sitting on a bed that hadn't seen action in millennia. Whatever. He'd show it some love tonight.

Second phase of the plan--lay down on Eddie's bed and call him. That was the end of the plan, because everything that came after was whatever Richie was feeling. If it went to voicemail, he'd be so fucked.

Ring... ring... "Eddie Kaspbrak speaking." Success.

"Hey, Eds," he purred jokingly (but not quite). "What're you wearing right now?"

He heard swearing and then silence, and then Eddie's voice again. "I was on speaker, asshole!"

He heard the distant sound of a check-out. "Where are you?"

"Myra forgot her B-12 tablets, so we're at Rite-Aid. Hold on..." There was a long silence, and then the sound of a car door opening and slamming shut. "Okay, I told her I was going to wait in the car... What's up?"

"I can't wait 'til you get home. Can't wait for you to fuck me."

There was a pause. Then, there was a barely audible, "Holy shit..."

Richie let his hands wander down the side of his body, finally resting by his crotch. "Can't wait to have your dick in my mouth... fucking my mouth... letting you cum down my throat."

"Richie, I'm in a parking garage right now. I can't do this in a--"

"If I was there right now, I'd let you fuck my mouth like I was a fucking whore."

"Jesus--"

"And then when you're about to cum, I'll push you back and sit on your thick cock, and just fuck myself silly," he slurred. "And I'll be nice and loud, moaning like a fucking porn star, riding you nice and slow."

Eddie, at this moment, had gulped awfully loud and was weighing his options. Right now, he had a lot of blood surging to his crotch and this foggy horniness in the front of his head. He leaned against the steering wheel and dragged his head down his face. "...There's a motel down the street. Just wait and I'll be there in, like, half an hour."

"I don't think I can wait that long. Just thinking about fucking you in your car, for anyone to see... gets me so fucking hot. Seeing me taking it over and over, letting you fuck my brains out..."

Eddie paused, and then he swore under his breath. "Goddammit, Tozier. God-fucking-dammit." He could hear Richie chuckle slightly, knowing he'd won. Eddie was at a loss for words. Eventually, he grumbled, "I'm taking a taxi home."

"What about Rite-Aid?"

"All I care about right now is fucking you against my mattress." He groaned under his breath. "You're such a twat sometimes."

"If you could see me right now," he slurred. "All spread out, ready to take your hard, thick cock."

It took him approximately seven minutes to get home and another thirty seconds to enter his apartment, throw down his jacket, and slam open his bedroom door. Upon doing this, he would see Richie Tozier, lying on his back, legs bent and spread, with a dumb smile on his face. He rolled his head back as Eddie climbed into bed, practically tearing his pants off and onto the floor.

They were now face to face. "I haven't touched myself since you hung up."

Eddie scowled, "You're so fucking needy." They were both equally hard, but Eddie even more so. It was indescribably uncomfortable to have a raging hard-on in skinny jeans. "And calling me while I'm out running errands? Begging to get fucked?"

"Definitely," he crooned, smiling as Eddie pressed him down by his shoulders. "I bet you don't even care if your wife sees."

Something about that went right to Eddie's cock. He yanked off his boxers and was delightfully surprised to see Richie prepped already.

"Oh, and I wasn't lying. I moan loud when I receive," he laughed huskily, exposing his neck as Eddie bit a deep hickey into the side. "Imagine your wife walking through that door and hearing me moan your name, taking your dick so good."

"Why do you keep talking about my wife?" he groaned, aligning his dick and slamming it into Richie, bottoming out. It caught the other off guard, evident by a moan escaping from his lips. "...Holy fuck." He held Richie's hands above his head, and that's when he realized he wasn't wearing his glasses. Weird.

Richie had his legs up, crossed over Eddie's back, eyes rolling back in total bliss. He moaned slightly, letting a smile creep onto his face. It was a strange smile, one that Eddie couldn't quite place, and it was even stranger when Richie stared straight through him, wide-eyed. His pupils seemed to dilate, until they were blown out and covered his irises. He stopped making any noise.

He stared down at where they joined, and a sickening mug crept over his face. "You put on a condom, right?" He stared up at Eddie with big, glittering eyes.

He groaned, "What?"

"You don't know where I've been," he slurred, wrapping his arms around Eddie's neck, holding him uncomfortably close. "I forgot... Did I have HPV or HIV?" That stopped Eddie dead in his tracks, causing Richie to laugh innocently.

"W-What?" he gulped.

"I probably should've told you. I'm not really clean, I don't think," he groaned, bucking his hips into Eddie, who was still stunned. "Doesn't matter. You're probably infected by now anyway."

Infected.

Eddie pulled out, nearly launching himself to the foot of the bed. He was absolutely speechless and oddly terrified, which was something he never expected of himself in his own home. Upon glancing at Richie, he noticed a few things he hadn't before. First of all, there were little blisters around the edges of his mouth and up along his pelvis, leaking pus. He looked completely disheveled, as if all color had been drained, and he looked weak as a kitten, laying there in Eddie's bed.

"What? You didn't expect that of me?" he croaked, his pupils shifting to slits. He crawled closer to him, his limbering body almost pushing Eddie off the bed. He stared at Richie, horrified and stiff. "Didn't your mom ever tell you about her friend from New York? His roommate got infected with AIDS, and now he sits in his room with a catheter and a breathing tank." He laid his strong, dirty fingers on Eddie's hipbones, but he couldn't move. He wouldn't dare.

Wait. The catheter and the breathing tank.

Didn't his mom tell him that story before?

"What're you scared of? Come on and fuck me." His eyes were wide, as if they had sunken in, and his concerned frown quickly turned into a toothy smile. "Pretend I'm one of the boys from those magazines."

The door swung open and Richie disappeared in an instant, turning to dust. That smile, though, remained. It hung in his mind, his gums almost bare and his teeth hungry to bite. He was still thinking about it when he heard a voice from the doorway, calling his name. He turned, to see Richie Tozier by the door, holding a bag of barbecue chips and a bottle of vodka.

"Eddie! When'd you get home?" He noticed Eddie's wide-eyed stare and put down the items on a nearby table. Richie approached him as one would do to a wild animal--slowly and reserved. "Hey, Eds, what's going on?"

"Don't touch me," he snapped, bringing his knees to his chest and holding tight. "I... I don't know what's happening."

"Hey, hey, Eds, come on." He ignored his wishes and sat down at the edge of the bed, keeping some distance. "Come on, buddy, you can tell me what happened. Did somebody call you short again--"

"Get the fuck away from me," he gritted through his teeth. It caused Richie to jump a bit in his skin. "I need space. I just need some space."

"Okay... I'm sorry."

"No, I just..." His voice trailed off as he glanced around the room. It wasn't real. He must've had one of those hallucinations that Richie was talking about. It finally happened to him. "You were here," he paused, "But it was bad. It was... Did you call me?"

He shook his head. "I was gonna grab some chips and, uh, some vodka, and then prank call you. Like, do a silly voice or something." His voice got low. "Now that I'm thinking about it, that sounds really stupid."

"But you didn't... Call me, sexually? Like, sext me, through a phone call?"

Richie's face curled into confusion as he shook his head. "No, Eds. I didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"I think I'd remember having phone sex with you, dipshit."

"Don't be like that with me right now, alright?" He covered his face with his hands. There was a long silence. "You remember in the hotel? When you had that... episode? And I wasn't who I was? I was IT, trying to scare you?"

Richie turned pale as he fidgeted with the fingers in his lap. His eyes were wide and longing, as if he were searching for an answer. "Yeah. I remember."

"It happened to me."

He paused. "Well," he coughed, finally making eye contact with Eddie again, "What did I do?"

"You called me, and you were horny, and you asked me to come home, so I did. And we were having sex, and then you brought up my wife for some reason," he rambled, gesticulating with his hands, "And then you told me you had a lot of STDs and infections and stuff, and that you had AIDS, and now I had all of them, too. And you had all these blisters and welts and... You were an infection." He gulped and nodded, reassuring himself. "A walking infection."

After a long while, Eddie looked up at Richie, who was sitting emotionless. His face was cold as stone and his eyes were lost in thought. He almost looked like he was about to bite straight through his lip.

"Richie--"

"I will never hurt you like that. Ever," he stated firmly, glancing at Eddie. "And even if you don't believe that--"

"I do, Rich--"

"Let me finish," he snapped, almost louder than how he wanted to say it. "And even if you don't believe that, or you subconsciously think that I'll hurt you, I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I could never do that. Even if I wanted to. I don't get around that much." His seriousness faltered slightly in a smirk. "What? You think I got syphilis or some shit? I'm not a Victorian prostitute."

"I know," he sulked, finally letting his legs hang off the side of the bed. "I'm just scared."

"Hey, pal, me too. If there's anyone that understands this, it's me."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right," he snapped, shooting him a grin. "Hey, why don't we get out of here? Go do something, have some fun, get our minds off it."

"Listen, Rich, that sounds great, but I'm still kind of out of it." He paused and laid back on the bed, his arms behind his head. "I made up some dumb excuse to Myra... something about a bad asthma attack. If we left the house, she's gonna know something's up."

"Well, sitting here and sulking in your own shit isn't gonna do much. Come on," he groaned, extending his hand to help Eddie stand up. "Let's go watch TV."

"Watch TV? What are we, an old married couple?"

He put on an old man impression, limbering slightly. "Do you think old gay guys get COPD from having something always stuck in their windpipe?"

"Gross. Not funny."

He backed off and smirked, an arm around Eddie's lower back. "I think Wheel of Fortune's on, gramps."

When they got to the couch, Richie sat on the soft cushion, spreading his knees out and clicking the remote, turning on a sitcom. Then he laid down and dropped his glasses off on the coffee table, allowing Eddie room to curl up on top of him.

"How're you gonna see the TV without your glasses, dipshit?"

"You think I watch TV?"

He sighed, feeling Richie's chest lift and sink with every breath. He slid off slightly, letting Richie's spoon him, his arms around his back and across his stomach, holding him close. It was like they did this all the time, and it was almost so lovely that Eddie didn't even need the TV on.

They laid like that for not even two minutes before Myra walked through the front door.


	8. Personal Space Invader

Thank God Richie was smarter than him. Well, in that instant, anyway. Besides this one time, Richie was indeed an idiot, but whatever.

Richie had sat up at just the right moment, having heard footsteps outside the door. He sat at the edge of the couch, his hands folded in his lap, an innocent and awkward look on his face. He was as inconspicuous as he could get, which meant he was as inconspicuous as the Central Park Streaker--glaringly exposed.

Myra walked in and dropped her bags to the floor, her lips tightened and her eyebrows furrowed. She was panting as if she had run up all four flights of stairs. She began to speak before restarting, at a loss for words. "Eddie, come with me. Now."

He sat up quickly, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. He stared at her, with her strong hands and heavy arms on either side of her hips, her face growing red and full with blood, her eyes sharp as knives. He looked like he was about to start shaking, but he held back and rose to his feet.

"Come with me. We're going to talk about this," she demanded, beginning to walk toward the bedroom. "I have questions. I have worries. We're going to talk about this right now."

Eddie shuffled after her, fidgeting with his hands as he walked. Richie watched him from the couch, not moving, feeling only slightly responsible. No, not slightly. He felt terrible, utterly terrible, and he had half a mind to storm into that bedroom and say something. Anything.

She slammed the door behind them and all Richie could make out was muffled yelling, all from Myra. He heard the door's lock click and something about that sent a shiver down his spine. Why would she need to lock the door? Was it to keep him out or Eddie in? Being locked in a small room with a person like that would make anyone nervous, never mind with someone like Eddie.

He didn't know what he should do. He didn't know what he could do, even if he did have the guts to give them a piece of his mind. There's nothing like a little bit of a lover's quarrel to kill the mood, especially when it bordered on abuse.

Abuse. Was this abuse? It was hard to tell, even worse with the locked door and muffled yelling. Maybe she was being perfectly reasonable and Eddie was being a bad person, but he really did have an episode, whether is was an asthma attack or not. He was a wreck, and the last thing Eddie should have is another lecture. He was practically squirming with panic on the couch.

He didn't mean to do it, feeling little to no control over his body, but he rose and walked towards the door, knocking gently against it. The yelling continued, although it was less muffled at this point and he could just barely make it out.

"You're awful. You're just awful for doing this! Absolutely awful... The fact you would do this to me, leave me out in the city alone... What if I got hurt? What if I was mugged, o-or worse?" Her voice sunk. "What if I got killed? How would you live with yourself then? What would you do, have another asthma attack?"

"...I'm sorry."

"Are you, Eddie? With this and that... That man outside! I'm starting to think... I'm starting to think you're doing something. Something bad!" There was a brief silence before she said, hushed, "Oh God, you are, aren't you?"

Eddie was quiet. "No. N-No, Myra. I'm not--"

"Then what are you doing? What are you doing, Eddie? Don't you dare look at me like that!"

"I... I think--"

"You don't think! You never think. What would Sonia--" Her voice cut off. "Crying doesn't make up for what you did." He voiced softened, although her words didn't. They strengthened, even. "You understand what you did? You understand what you're doing is hurting me?"

He was silent, but Richie could hear his breathing hitch slightly and his breath get caught in his throat.

"You always hurt me, and you never feel bad for it. You never feel remorse."

His breath was getting crisp and rocky, as if something was stuck in his windpipe. He was definitely having an asthma attack, even if Richie didn't know what that exactly sounded like. Did Eddie even have asthma? He always thought the inhaler was for show, but maybe that's the one thing he did have. Whatever it was, he obviously wasn't having a good time.

"Can you please say something?" she said after awhile.

"My inhaler," he gasped through shaking breaths. "On the table."

Richie heard loud footsteps coming towards the door before Myra opened it. She glanced at him with wide eyes before pushing past him, saying something under her breath. She looked neat and well-groomed, with her blonde hair curled and hair-sprayed, her shirt ironed and flat against her chest. He noticed this as she walked straight out the front door and slammed it shut behind her.

Seeing her figure leave the apartment, Richie shuffled into the living room and saw it, the inhaler. It was laying on the coffee table, defeated, weathered. He fit it snugly in his pocket and returned to the bedroom, pushing the door open slowly. There he saw Eddie sitting on the side of the bed, his hands covering his face, his shoulders bunched up around his head.

"Eds, I, um," he murmured, pulling the inhaler out of his pocket. He suddenly felt stupid walking in there like that.

He extended his hand out, making a "gimme" gesture with his hand. Richie placed it in his palm and he quickly brought it to his face, pulling the trigger on the inhaler and breathing in the bitter air. He gasped after a while, finally taking in a non-shaky breath. "...Thank you."

"Don't mention it, buddy," he said awkwardly, sitting down next to him on the bed. He couldn't help but stare down at the floor.

He gulped as his hands descended to his sides, his face red and covered in tears. "Where... Where'd she go?"

"She... left. She's walked out the front door."

"God fucking--" His voice cut over as he dragged his fingers down his face, wiping away his tears.

He was quiet for a moment. "Are you... feeling better? With the inhaler."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Can you please just leave?" he nearly yelled, raising his voice to a surprising volume. "Just leave me alone."

Richie shook his head. "I can't do that." He heard Eddie whimper slightly before stating, "Someone once stayed by me when I was having a rough time, and I want to return the favor. He said, 'I'm going to be here until you're okay,' or something like that, and I never really had that before." He paused and dropped his hand near Eddie's, yet he was too afraid to touch it. "And I doubt he had it either."

He stared down at the floor as he slowly interlocked his fingers with Richie's, his face tensing as his eyes leaked a few more tears. "Thanks, Rich."

"...Do you want me to make you dinner?"

"Richie--"

"And by make dinner, I mean order pizza, 'cause I'm a really bad cook. I told you about the night in Reno, right?"

"No, you didn't," Eddie snickered and leaned into Richie, letting him wrap his arm around him as he sighed. He wiped away the tears of his face and slumped into him, feeling his warm chest against him. "I gotta call Myra."

"No you don't."

"Rich, yes I do--"

"If that bitch wants to be dramatic then let her tire herself out."

He leaned out of the embrace. "She's not a bitch. She's my wife."

"She's not your wife. She's your mother," he retorted.

He was quiet after that for a long while. There was something about that sentence that made him loosen, as if he was trying to deny it for too long and it was finally coming undone. "I know you're right," he started, "But she's still a person. I still have to treat her with respect--"

"And if you respect yourself, if you gave yourself even the slightest bit of kindness, Eddie, you'd tell her how you feel."

"No, no, Rich." He shook his head, scoffing at the idea. "The truth is, I'm... kind of scared of her."

"Then why are you with her?"

He bit his knuckle and became lost in thought, staring towards the other side of the room. "Because I didn't have anyone to fall back on. I didn't have any control, and she had that. She controlled me, and I wanted that." He finally loosened, letting his fists fall to his side. "Ever since Mom died--You know I went to visit her in the hospital, right? I didn't want to see her--I hated her. But then I finally came to see her, and she was already dead."

"Oh... shit."

"Yeah, 'oh shit' is right! And of course no one shows up to the fucking funeral except Myra and me." He rose from the bed, beginning to gesticulate again. "And--And, you weren't there for me. I remember that. Wait a second... You left, after high school. I remember. I remember... l-looking at you, and..."

"Wait, what?"

"And--And you left us. I remember that! You left to... t-to move somewhere! You left to go find yourself or something. And I remember watching you leave in your gross, red fucking Chevrolet. You fucking dick! I remember--!" Eddie's voice was caught when Richie rose from the bed, something finally snapping behind his eyes.

"Do you remember me popping your fucking cherry, dumbass? Do you remember that, Eddie?"

His eyes were blank and wide, staring up at Richie with utter shock.

He continued, "Because whatever you're talking about? I have no idea. Not a clue, but I remember that sleepover when we were 18, and I remember you moaning my name, but I've been keeping it to myself since I turned up in good ol' Derry, Maine. Since I walked into that stupid restaurant. So go and fucking remember that."

Eddie didn't respond to that, but his eyes widened as he looked up at Richie. He was dreadfully quiet, his pupils almost squirming in his irises as he began to think. He was thinking so hard that Richie could almost see a vein pop in the side of his head. He sat back down on the bed. "This is a lot to digest."

"Yeah. I'm aware," he groaned. "You really don't remember?"

He thought for a moment and then shook his head. "I always thought... Myra--"

"God bless you. If I thought my first time was with that--"

He didn't comment on it. "Please. Just let me think." He laid back on the bed, his hands in his lap, his eyes lost in thought. "You left the second we graduated. You didn't even say goodbye."

"I'm going to be honest--I have no recollection. None."

"But you remember us losing our virginity. That's so typical of you."

"Maybe because I like to remember the good things!" he snapped. "Wait, wait, no. I'm not arguing with you on this. We argue too much."

"Okay, let's suppose we're both right and let's connect the dots," he sighed, placing his hands on his face, rubbing his eyes. "We were 18, around graduation. High school graduation. We had a sleepover. That's what you said, right?"

He nodded.

"And at this supposed sleepover, we had sex. First time. For either of us."

He nodded again.

"And then you just left. You just... disappeared. Got in your car and went west. You never offered me an explanation."

"Maybe there wasn't an explanation," he said slowly and quietly, like he was trying to formulate it all in his head. "Maybe..."

After a long pause, Richie rose from the bed, his eyes suddenly very wide, the whites shimmering over the top of them. He covered his mouth with his hands and shuffled around the room, trying to piece it all together. "Wait, wait, your mother never let me sleep over. I remember that. She thought I was a bad kid."

"Well, weren't you? We used to burn ants with magnifying glasses in your--" He shook his head. "Whatever. So, did you sleep over or not?"

"Not at your house, no..." His voice trailed off as his hand met his forehead. He leaned against a bookcase and bit his lip, thinking.

"Maybe it was yours."

"No, no...How'd you know that motel just happened to have lube? And what made you put that lube in the microwave?" he said with serious intent, although it came out way too funny for him not to crack a smile.

Eddie smirked. "Oh, back at the hotel? No one likes cold lube on their dick, stupid."

"It just seems like something someone wouldn't think of on their first try, that's all," Richie reasoned. "You did it before, didn't you?"

"When would I have done it, genius?"

Richie's eyes suddenly snapped open. "The motel. We were there before." He stuck a finger out at Eddie in sudden realization. "There. In that room. We did it in that room, twenty-seven years ago. Your mom kicked us out!"

"Excuse me?"

"Your mom wouldn't let me sleep over, so we went to the hotel--I remember! We were gonna play cards or watch a movie, and then... I called for lube, and we didn't microwave it that time! And I had ice-cold lube on my dick! I remember!" He started to laugh.

Eddie's voice got serious. "You remember all that but you don't remember leaving?"

"I don't see why I would leave," he said confidently, his hands on his hips. "If we were up fucking in that motel, I'd probably stay another--"

"Didn't we get caught?" he whispered coldly, nodding. "Yeah... yeah, we did. The hotel lady ratted us out. I remember that," he said, rising from the bed and making his way over to Richie. "I remember laying on a bed and seeing my mother in the door frame crying, and then screaming at me to get up, and then seeing you get the fuck out of there." He jabbed a finger into Richie's chest. "Gone like the fucking wind."

Richie stared back at him, lifeless. "I did do that, didn't I?"

"Mm. And I left after that, too. 'Didn't really have a choice then, did I?" He turned away and leaned on the bookshelf, lost in thought.

"Look, Eds--" He didn't know how to finish the sentence. "If I knew I wouldn't see you again I would've stayed--"

"So waiting twenty-seven years was good enough?" Eddie spat, finally meeting his eyes. "Waiting for me to get stuck in a loveless marriage, waiting for my abusive mother to die, waiting for me to almost get killed? Was it worth it, Richie?"

He didn't know what to say.

He continued to rant. "Was it worth it to wait until your age finally caught up to you, and you finally had to face the fucking music? Finally saw yourself in the mirror and realized you've been wasted out there, rotting away in the fucking Nevada sunshine? Because I've been rotting for twenty-seven years without you, Richie Tozier, and I can damn well finish it without you, too."

And he definitely didn't know what to say to that.

But he managed to think of something.

"Eds, you don't mean that."

He breathed slowly and quietly before finally sighing. "I don't. I really don't," he sighed, sliding down to the floor and curling his knees up to his chest. "Sorry, I'm just... stressed."

Richie exhaled suddenly. "Thank God. I was scared you were going to keep digging into my psyche."

"What? Did I almost figure you out?"

"It's just all coming back to me now." He slid down to meet him. "Didn't you tell me to leave?"

"Now why would I do that?"

He swallowed. "Well, if my mother walked in on me cuddling naked with anybody, I'd die of embarrassment. I'd probably skip town, which is what I did, but--"

"I just wished you called me earlier," he said, wiping the tears and bags out from underneath his eyes. "I wish you came back to me before I made all these stupid decisions. It makes it a lot harder now."

"It makes what a lot harder?"

"Divorce. It isn't fun. Thank God we didn't have kids." He smirked. "Yeah, no, I'm not having kids. I'll have, like, fur children, or something."

"I hear ya, pal," he sighed, finally rising and crossing the room to the table, pouring himself a shot of straight vodka. He turned his head over his shoulder, as if to say, "Hey, what're you doing? Come join me." Eddie took the hint and rose, gladly taking the shot glass. Besides his lack of hesitance, he still stared into the glass curiously, as if he was making sure nothing else was inside.

Richie took the shot, letting the alcohol roll down his throat and let it settle warmly in his stomach. It made him smile when Eddie did the same, but the second it hit his throat, Eddie's eyes snapped open, surprised at the sudden burning. "I'm more of a wine kind of guy," was his only explanation.

"So, wait, are we chill now?" Richie asked, pouring himself another shot, although it was still burning his throat. "Because you scared me for a second there."

"I'm just surprised I remembered it. And I'm surprised it happened in that motel. It's like... I don't know. Fate."

He took the second shot. "That's dumb. It's probably a coincidence. There aren't a lot of places to have hidden sex in Derry, Maine."

"True, true," he reasoned extending his hand, gesturing for Richie to refill his shot glass. "Damn it, Rich. I only ever drink when you're around."

"If it's a special occasion," he said, raising the bottle, "Then let's get shitfaced."

And that they did.

They so did.

Richie was a very common type of drunk. He was sentimental and touchy, all warm and fuzzy with everything he said, layering on the sugar like it was powder on donuts. He made jokes that were even dumber than usual, all the while making googly eyes at whoever happened to sit next to him. He wasn't necessarily a horny drunk, but he only got drunk when he was horny, if that was any consolation.

Eddie was a dangerous type of drunk, in that he was very trusting. You could ask him anything and he'd tell you with some extra tidbits on the side. He would make plans with you weeks in advance for things he definitely didn't want to go to and would add you back on Facebook in less than five minutes upon the request. Needless to say, if you told him that he had nice hair, you would have to stay with him the whole night.

Richie and Eddie made a good pair when they were drunk.

"No, no, like... Call him, but pretend you're, like... I don't know. A..."

"A hooker," Richie nodded, cradling the phone in between his shoulder and cheek.

"Yeah, yeah. Like a hooker he forgot to pay, but, but--"

"She was like, into it, and wants to see him again--"

Eddie sat up suddenly on the bed. "Russian! She's a... a Russian single in your area! Do the Russian... thing."

Richie nodded haphazardly, sitting up against the headboard with Eddie slouched against his shoulder, almost drooling. Both their pupils were blown out and dazed, his eyelids sagging as he dialed his manager's number. 555-2368.

He let it dial, letting it hum against his shoulder before someone finally picked up, hushed and angry. "Rich? Do you have any idea what time it is?" It was on speaker.

"Oh, you gotta hang up and do... uh... er, asterisk 67," Eddie slurred, sliding the phone out from under his jaw. He hung up and reentered the number, squinting as the numbers as if they were squirming on the screen. "That way, he won't know it's you."

"Yeah, you're right," Richie nodded again, but he nodded too fast and ended up tossing his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "You're so smart, Eds."

"Do the... Do the Russian thing."

Richie took back the phone and listened to it hum before it was almost instantly picked up. "Hello?"

He did a God-awful Russian accent, fit with a high pitch. It sounded more like a chainsmoker than Russian, but he carried on. "Hello, is dis..." He forgot Steve's last name. "Is dis Steven?"

There was a long pause. "Richie, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"No, no... I'm calling about de fantastic orgasm I gave you last night. I... charge extra."

"Richie. Please. It's two AM. And anyway, you should be here before--"

Eddie laid down, placing his head in Richie's lap and snuggling up against him, his expression not changing from perfectly neutral. The other couldn't resist running his fingers through Eddie's hair. In any other situation, Eddie would've been pissed, but not this time.

"I charged $200? No. I charge $300, plus tips. Do you have Venmo?"

"Richie, I'm hanging up now. Please don't contact me again if it's not work-related."

"I suck you nice and hard through your jorts, and dis is de thanks I get?" He heard the phone click. Steve hung up. Obnoxious laughter bellowed from Richie's chest, accented by Eddie's snickering and occasional snorting. Whenever he'd snort, Richie would laugh louder, turning himself so he was spooning Eddie, the two of them laying down on the bed in a drunken stupor.

"That was... perfect. I wonder why you aren't fired yet."

"It'd put a lot of writers out of a job."

"You're not leaving again, right?" he said, his voice getting lower.

He buried his face in Eddie's hair, holding him tighter. "No. I don't feel like it. I want... I want every night to be like this."

"You know, it can be," he said, yawning. "I just gotta... move out. Pack up my shit. Come live with you. And then everyday can be like this."

"You'd really do that?"

"I've wanted to do that for... fucking decades." He stretched, letting Richie wrap his arms around his lower torso. "I wanna... I wanted to do a lot of things, for a while--Wait, are you hard?"

Richie grinded slightly against him, shrugging, "Maybe."

"That fast?"

He tossed a leg over the side of Eddie, grumbling as he laid there. "...You really gotta call me out like that?"

"I'm not sitting on your dick. I'm tired."

"I never said... anythin' about that," he grunted. "Just 'cause I'm horny doesn't mean anything."

"If you're trying to convince me--"

"My dick is right by your ass. If I don't get hard, that's a problem."

"You're always hard. You're hard when you wake up, hard in the shower, hard at work--"

"If I was hard at work, I would definitely get fired," Richie laughed, letting Eddie turn to lay down next to him. "Unless you wanna come with me. Fuck before the shows."

"Oh yeah, and you always have sex hair," he grumbled, moving a strand of hair out of Richie's face. "You're a walking mess of a man. A wreck."

"You didn't say no... To like, the show thing."

"I'm also piss drunk, so--"

His breath hitched when he felt a sudden strong grasp around his crotch, evident by his slight gasp. Richie grumbled in response, "Me, too."

"What're you doing?" he slurred, letting Richie unbuckle the jeans he was currently holding onto. Richie's thick fingers were now stashed between his pant buckle and boxers, allowing him room to slide down and grasp Eddie's dick. "Jesus," he exhaled.

"Before we continue," Richie breathed, laying his head down on the pillow. "We gotta make sure Pennywise isn't here. I'm not having nightmare sex again."

"Mm, okay. Ask me something he wouldn't know."

"Doesn't that fucker know everything?"

"He only knows the bad stuff, I think," Eddie murmured, moving so he was on top of Richie now, kneeling in front of him on the bed. "Hold on." He started to unbuckle his pants.

"Good stuff, good stuff... Okay. Who was my main in Street Fighter?"

"God if I know. All I remember is Stan always played the girl character."

Richie smiled. "Chun-Li."

"Okay, your turn." He dropped the jeans off to the side of the bed, finally laying down on top of the other. "What was my favorite show when I was little?"

"Easy. Thundercats. Or, when you were too embarrassed to say that, Married with Children."

"Ah. That was an easy one, though. I used to wear that Thundercats shirt all the time."

Richie groaned, "With those stupid running shorts. You wonder why you got bruises on your knees."

"You told me you liked them once."

"So you wore them everyday?"

Eddie shook his head, playing with Richie's hair. "No. Only when I knew I'd be seeing you."

Richie smiled at that and rolled his eyes, but it shifted into cruel seriousness. His eyes widened as he muttered, "I'm not a bad person for being here, right?"

"You're just as bad as me, Rich. Just as bad." He paused, and then grinned. "So, no. If I'm happy and you're happy, this is good."

_Predator--_

"Trust me, Rich. All those weird thoughts in your head? They're not true. It's fear. It's, er, IT," he laughed, resting his head on Richie's chest as he ran his fingers along Eddie's back. "You're good for me."

_You--_

"I want you to look at me and tell me you're okay."

Richie smirked. "I'm fine, Eds."

"Okay, because sometimes you get this weird look in your eye and I can't tell. But I'm gonna be here. And you're gonna be here--"

"Damn straight."

"And we're gonna get through this, you and me," he said, holding him tighter. Richie could feel a speckle of tears forming at his waterline, but it was more out of being overwhelmed than anything. "We're gonna be okay."

_And welcome to this world  
Have as much fun as you would like  
While helping others have as much fun as you're having  
And be kind to those you love  
And be kind to those you don't  
But for God's sake you've gotta be kind._


End file.
